


AKA It's a Vacation

by afalcone10



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Psychological Torture, Rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afalcone10/pseuds/afalcone10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica gave Kilgrave new life, so he shows her the world. Paris. London. Rome. They can go anywhere. They will go everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paris

**Author's Note:**

> After binge-watching Jessica Jones, I'm suddenly all about binge-writing Jessica Jones fanfiction. And I just can't get the Jessica/Kilgrave relationship out of my head.

...

“Have you ever gone to Paris?” Kilgrave asks.  
  
He looks up at Jessica. Her eyes are closed, and she manages to shake her head. She's breathing heavily through her open mouth, her exposed chest heaving up and down … the sight of her almost makes him come undone.  
  
“Really?” He asks. He shouldn't be surprised, but he is, he always is around her. He knows her family died and all that when she was a teenager, but come on! They could have dragged themselves across the Atlantic just once. It’s _Paris._  
  
“Well, that settles it. We’re going tomorrow morning,” he decides, and bends his head down again.

Her body arches up for a brief second before she can stop herself, before she goes totally rigid. She always tries to stop herself. Frankly, it's the bane of his existence. “Let yourself enjoy this, goddamnit,” he hisses into her inner thigh.

She runs her fingers through his hair in response. Blissfully, he closes his eyes.

... 

He hates flying, but what can you do? He can command the private jet's pilots to get them to Paris without any troubles, but it's not like he can control the weather.

Kilgrave would know. He’s tried.

He's fidgeting. He hates fidgeting. He suggests that Jessica get on her knees and take him in his mouth and she does, spectacularly. Things are so much better now that she knows he really doesn't like it when she uses teeth. He relaxes, keeps her going until she's sucked him off twice. 

They take a nap on the waterbed and when they wake up, he inducts her into the mile high club. Poor thing's never done it on an airplane. He's her  _first._

…

They roll up to the Hôtel de Crillon and empty the whole building, save for essential staff. Bed bugs, lots and lots of bed bugs, he has the staff tell the hotel guests. Everyone leaves pretty quickly after that. Much easier than compelling the lot of them.

Jessica goes upstairs and sleeps off the time difference while he sees to the remaining employees, telling them everything he wants them to do for him and Jessica. She will love everything.

When Kilgrave’s finished, he goes upstairs to their suite. He knows he told her to strip naked and fall asleep with the covers off as soon as her head hits the pillow, but it still goes straight to his cock to see Jessica sprawled out like that. If he weren’t so exhausted, he’d wake her up for their first real fuck on French soil. Alas.

Their first real fuck on French soil the next morning is messy and sloppy, but of course it is, when they’re in the shower and there’s warm water spraying all over them and Jessica brings her head forward, bumping against his forehead while he pounds away into her. He didn’t even _tell_ her to do that. Add in the fact that he can see their moving reflections in the shower’s pristine, glass sliding door and, well, there you have it, messy and sloppy and totally, utterly satisfying.  

Once they're dressed, he presents her with a silky Hermès scarf he got just for her. She tells him she loves it. The scarf is a dark maroon one that makes her look like she slit her throat an hour ago. He loves it too. 

…

He’s been to Paris hundreds of times, but never once with Jessica. It's a whole new city, he realizes, when he's strolling hand-in-hand with his one true love. He watches Jessica admire the Haussmann architecture and the fruit stands and the little parks and the patisseries and all the winding piéton streets. Her big dark eyes take in everything.

He takes picture after picture of her: Jessica in front of the Obelisk, Jessica in front of an antiquated Métro sign, Jessica counting out Euros to buy him a bag of roasted chestnuts, Jessica in front of Notre-Dame, Jessica perusing the books at the bouquinistes along the Seine, Jessica reading at Shakespeare & Co., Jessica dancing in front of a street performer, Jessica smelling a bouquet of flowers, Jessica sitting on a bench at the Jardin du Luxembourg, Jardin des Plantes, Jardin du Tuileries. She’s smiling in every one.

Everything’s so much better when you take your woman to the best restaurants and the finest bars and she gifts you her acceptance, her opinion, her approval, her gratitude. Yes, Paris was a good idea.

…

Nowadays, Jessica only wears the most expensive, tailored designer clothing. Her French wardrobe, he decides, should only consist of French designers: Chanel, Dior, Givenchy, Louboutin. He buys her everything she could ever want—yes, _buys_ , he actually _buys_ her every article of clothing: every brassiere, every high heel, every purse, every blouse. Course, it’s not his money, it’s from the hotel’s bank account, but she doesn’t need to know that.

He makes her twirl around and around in a dark purple silk evening dress that she’ll wear when he takes her to the opera. It looks like she’s flying, which makes for such a pretty picture. He takes five of them on his phone, plus a thirty-second video.

She tries on every dress, every coat, every skirt, every lingerie set. It takes hours, but she’s lucky he’s one of those men that actually likes going shopping with his woman. She looks fantastic in everything, of course. She’d have to try to look bad, which she may as well have been doing before he came into her life.

He shudders, remembering those awful mid-calf black leather boots.

“Come along, Jessica, let’s get you some diamonds.”

…

Now that she’s in her Paris wardrobe—and her frilly French lingerie, though he doesn’t know which set because he left that up to her—Kilgrave takes her to a tiny little bistro tucked in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t even have to compel any customers to leave, since there’s no one there, and the bored waiter leaves them alone without even having to be told to do that.

God, he loves this city.

“Jessica, tell me what you want to order,” he says. “It’s your first official meal in a Paris bistro, after all.”

“Water,” she tells him.

Ah, poor little lamb, too overwhelmed to know what to do with herself! He should have asked for an English menu. He forgot she doesn’t speak French.

He orders her some hearty French onion soup and a bottle of their best red. For himself, foie gras, as thick of a slab as they got, and a nice glass of Sauterne. For the table, he orders a thick, warm baguette with nice salted butter from Normandy. Heavenly.

He takes a picture of her seated across the table, grinning. It’s only until after he looks at the picture that he notices how tightly she’s gripping the stem of her wine glass.

While they wait for the meal, he tells her all about how he taught himself French. Well, he got himself a tutor, but really, it’s not like that smarmy bastard _made_ him understand French. No. He learned it! He did that all by himself!

“You’re so smart,” Jessica sniffs.

He squints at her, but she just takes a sip of her wine. It’s so dim inside the restaurant, her lips look positively purple. He leans across the table and kisses her forcefully. 

When they get back to the hotel, he chases her naked around the ballroom. Who knew she was so ticklish? 

He remembered she said she had a year of piano lessons when she was 12, so he makes her play the Baby Grand for him. But her playing’s atrocious, her fingers are all wrong, and there isn’t a thing he can do about that, really. What he should do is go find whatever horrible piano player crawled out of hell to pretend to give lessons to that poor innocent child, but that’s not an option right now.

Instead, he sits next to her, their bare thighs touching, and shows her what to do with her hands. It’s exhilarating, he finds, that he can do this for her and she for him.

“Tell me I’m so smart. The smartest man you’ve ever met,” he breathes into her ear. His father’s face pops up in his mind for a second, and he blinks. What was that?

But then Jessica’s angling her face towards him, murmuring, “You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met” in this sublimely husky voice he’s never heard her use before. She’s looking down at their hands, her thick black eyelashes fluttering, and that’s all he can think about now.

When he gets tired, he brings her upstairs to their suite, dresses her in a black silk pajama top with white piping. He’s wearing the pants. They brush their teeth side-by-side in the bathroom, holding hands. He’s never felt so domestic.

In bed that night, she’s the big spoon. He’s always loved the feeling of someone’s warm body wrapped around him, enveloping him, protecting him—even more so when it’s Jessica Jones. She stays up late talking to him about her childhood memories in that same husky voice he’s just learned about until she falls asleep.

It’s been such a lovely first day, and he’s so happy. They should have come to Paris weeks ago! But they’re here now, and he’s already booked the whole hotel for a month. He can’t wait to see what he’ll have happen tomorrow.

…

Breakfast is a quiet affair. They’re at a corner café munching on pain au chocolat and sipping espresso. He reads the newspaper to her in the best French he can manage, eyeing her over the top of the page to gauge her reaction. If he mispronounces a word or two, she doesn’t know any better. Together they sit until he’s finished with all the articles he cared to read. He swears he sees stars in her eyes.

… 

They hold hands strolling around the Musée de l’Orangerie. He’s so glad he made everyone leave; it’s so much better when all the loud tourists are gone and it’s just him and his art.

Jessica loves it too, after he tells her to stop complaining that her feet hurt or that it’s too boring. Now she stands proudly by his side, a slender arm wrapped around his waist, her fingers grazing his lower back. She quietly listens to him tell her everything she needs to know about Monet and his lilies.

Occasionally, she’ll murmur, an acknowledgement that she hears what he’s saying, and he’s shocked into silence the first time she hums into his ear. He didn’t even tell her to do that! His heart feels like it might burst.

...

Jessica is mindlessly watching television in the hotel room as he gets ready to go out for dinner. The theme song to “Patsy Walker” comes on and his spine stiffens.  _How is this possible? Why is that stupid dinosaur of a show even playing in France right now?_

When he steps out of the bathroom doorway, he can see that Jessica’s seated in front of the television, hand pressed to the screen, as she watches her beloved sister. He’s forgotten what a looker Patsy was—is. Why didn’t he ever think to have a threesome with her and Jessica? Maybe when they get back.

“Turn that shite off.” She scrambles for the remote. Silence.

Oh great, now Jessica’s staring out the window. Pathetic, really. But it’s to be expected. They both lost their parents, but at least she had a sister, even it were an adoptive sister. He, he didn’t have anyone. Maybe things would have been easier if there had been a brother for him.

“What are you thinking, Jessica? I want to know,” he softly tells her, sitting down next to her on the floor. He takes her hand in his, starts stroking her inner wrist with his thumb. How can she be so powerful when she looks so frail right now? 

“I miss her,” she replies, looking down. Her hair forms a curtain around her face, but he still spots a lone teardrop streaking down her cheek.

“There, there,” he coos, taking her head and cradling it in his lap. “You’re fine. You don’t need her. You have me.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need her. I have you,” Jessica whimpers. He pets her hair some more.

“There you go. Cheer up, Jessica. Give me a smile,” he urges.

She looks up at him. Her wet eyelashes have formed tiny black triangles with her tears. But her smile, it’s so bright, it changes her whole face.

The concierge arrives with the Veuve Clicquot that Kilgrave requested. Together, he splits the bottle with Jessica in the bathtub—well, Jessica drinks most of it. He just has a glass of his own and mostly sips from hers, taking care to drink from the same spot where her lips touched.

He was so good, so kind to Jessica in the bathtub: carefully brushing her hair, shaving her legs, giving her a massage.

He had no idea Jessica’s hair would smell this good with lavender! Why didn’t she tell him? He takes a picture of the shampoo bottle and sends it to the concierge downstairs so he’ll buy it from the pharmacy down the street.

You can’t even tell Jessica was crying just an hour ago! He decides to fuck her against the floor-to-ceiling window. 

She’s tits against the glass, naked as the day she was born. He imagines what the sudden coolness is doing to her body. The sight of her spread out, naked, is almost too much for him. The streetlight streams in, illuminates her long supple body, makes it look like she's glowing with a thousand yellow fairy lights. God, what a beautiful arse. He admires it for a second.

The lights are off, he's not a prat. He loves looking out across the city, down at the streets, over the way. It's such a rush to fuck while looking down at all the stupid people just walking around who have no idea who he is, what he’s doing, what Jessica’s doing, what he’s doing to Jessica.   
  
He comes up behind her, and she gasps. She loves this.  
  
“See what I can do for you?” he asks, wrapping his hand around her front, cupping her lovely cunt. “All of this, I've done it for you.”  
  
Slow and steady he goes, biting down on her shoulder, looking out at the skyline. Can’t she see he’s giving her the world?  
  
“Tell me you love this,” he breathes, the lavender going to his head.  
  
“I love this,” she flatly replies.  
  
No no  _no_ , that won't  _do_.  
  
“Let yourself enjoy this,” he whispers into her ear, and her body goes slack. There, that's better. She's moving now, responding to him. He puts his hands over hers on the window and curls his fingers around them. God, she's so good when she wants to be. No need for her to be so stubborn when it could be like this all the time. She's such a fantastic fuck.  
  
He feels himself getting closer, commands her to come with him. She does and it's glorious, absolutely perfect. He kisses her neck but doesn't pull out just yet, preferring to stay pressed against her against the glass. He's on top of the world right now, looking across the Parisian skyline, running his finger up and down her shivering arm.  
  
“Tell me you love this, and really mean it,” he repeats, resting his chin on her shoulder.   
  
“I love this and really mean it,” she replies.  
  
Close enough.

…

They play hide-and-seek at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, tripping over the broken cobblestones and hiding behind crumbling gravestones. Jessica’s surprisingly decent at hiding from him, but she’s terrible at staying hidden when he tells her to come out from wherever she is.

He guides her to Jim Morrison’s gravesite because he figures Miss Leather Jacket would be into that sort of thing. He lights a candle and sets it at the foot of the grave. She approves.

… 

Somehow, boat rides on the Seine seem less cheesy and stupid when he’s on the boat sitting next to Jessica, sharing a blanket and a thermos of Irish whiskey with her. Amazingly, that holds up even after the seventh Seine boat trip they embark on. 

...

Jessica is getting stares. She’s attracting heated looks. Men watch her all the time and it’s not her fault. She’s just so stunning. Plus, he knows for a fact that her eyes can’t leave his face whenever they’re in public. It’s these men, these French bastards. He can’t stand men admiring what’s his, imagining what it’d be like to have her. It makes him sick. 

The next time he catches a guy staring at her, he makes him bash his head in with his cell phone until he’s forgotten all about her. The next one pulls down his pants and takes a massive shit on his wife’s terrified face. The next one jumps off a bridge.

When it’s gotten to the point that he loses his temper and actually yells at some schlub to “GO GET AIDS” out of sheer frustration, he whisks Jessica back to the hotel, where he fucks her silly. 

They only leave the suite after she’s broken the bed during a particularly energetic strip tease. He chuckles and carries her, bridal style, to the next set of rooms.

Before drifting off to sleep, he reminds himself to shag her first thing tomorrow, so they’ll have properly christened this suite too. Christ, he should shag her in all the hotel rooms, every last one. Why didn’t he think of this before?

They only leave the hotel after they have, in fact, fucked in every single room—all 146 of them.

It takes about a week, but now he’s had her more ways than he thought possible. Boy, did her feline grace and superhero flexibility really come in handy! Even missionary with her is a revelation, every single time.

He knows she likes it rough, though, and what do you know, that’s how he likes it too. He’ll never get tired of the sight of Jessica bobbing up and down on his cock, her hands pressing into his chest so hard that he gets bruises. She gives him hickeys too, absolutely filthy hickeys, to mark him even more, and he takes care to do the same to her. Her inner thighs are particularly vulnerable.

Jessica Jones must have told him “I’m yours,” over a thousand times by now and he still hasn’t tired of hearing it.

He's gotten her to come without even telling her to do it, without having to make her enjoy herself. That's happened a lot now. A regular occurrence, even. He knew this would happen. He knew, even when she didn't believe him, that they would reach this point eventually. He's so pleased, he doesn't even brag about it to her. He bites his tongue so he doesn't rub it in her face that it occurred sooner rather than later! 

Breakfast, lunch, dinner in bed from the finest French restaurants, when they don't want to bother going downstairs to the restaurant or the bar or the grand ballrooms. Jessica loves cassoulet and coq au vin and salade lyonnaise and duck à l’orange. She has such a sweet tooth, gobbling up the macarons and mille-feuilles and éclairs and Paris-Brest and lemon tarts and petit fours by the handful—but he’s not worried, her superhero metabolism is sky-high. Worst case scenario, she can always run a hundred miles on the treadmill of the hotel’s gym, if it gets to that point.

When they’re not making love, they swim naked in the pool, watch movies in the private screening room, read books to each other in the library. She’s a fantastic model, and he gets such a kick out of photographing her, often positioning her naked body on the chaise or the bed so the light hits her just so.

He teaches her some French, painstakingly repeating sounds and words for her—she’s actually not bad and her accent’s passable. Letters, numbers, colors, countries, articles of clothing. If she ever gets lost from him here, God help her, she can ask for directions. He also teaches her French dirty talk; he loves when she groans for him to fuck her right in the pussy. He's the only one that will ever hear her say that.

His days and nights revolve around her, more than ever. He never thought he’d feel so complete just doing nothing, nothing except enjoying the sweet, sweet companionship of a woman. His woman. Isn’t life grand? He’s perfectly content. How could he not be, when his whole world is constantly by his side?

Twice now, he’s timed it so she’s asleep when the hold he has on her goes off. Jessica has no idea, of course. She could leave at any moment, pin him to the floor, strangle him with her bare hands, jump out of the window and run to safety. Instead, she’s sleeping next to him, over him, under him, on him … cuddling him, touching him, breathing on him. He’s delirious with happiness.

Now he knows her body better than she does—he’s fucked her more than any other woman in his life, he realizes, and that’s saying something. He’s absolutely giddy when she tells him she’s fucked him more than any other man. See? They’re made for each other.

It’s only then that he realizes he’s literally fucked the other men out of her life. It’s only then that he takes her out of the hotel again. These other men, they’ll never have her like he has. Bully for them if they pathetically try to pretend otherwise. They have no idea the ways they could be having Jessica—he’s the only one that truly knows. 

…

Jessica’s been testy. She’s on her period. He should know.

She’s fighting him on every little thing. He tells her to hold his hand, but she doesn’t hold it the right way, her grip is limp. He wants her to walk around the Musée d’Orsay with him, she drags her feet. 

Aaaaand they’re back. Back to him making her orgasm on command. Back to him politely requesting that she feel this way instead of do this thing. Back to repeating a list of demands whenever it gets close to the end of his hold: no hurting him, no killing him, no running away, no whining. He's getting sick of it. He’s lost track of how many commands he’s had to give her. Disappointed is an understatement. 

They walk into a four-Michelin star restaurant for dinner. After they’ve been served their cocktails, he has everyone hold a steak knife to their throat while he attempts to set things straight with her.

“Jessica, listen to me. I want you to understand everything I’m saying. It doesn’t have to be like this, you know. I don’t know why you’re making it so hard for yourself. It’s pointless, darling, surely you must know that.”

She pouts. He sighs and reaches across the table to take her hand.

“Stop acting like a child. Let yourself go. Just give in already. You've already started to, you know. I don't have to force you, bloody force you, to come anymore, remember? That proves you want me. Your body already knows, it's just your heart that needs to catch up. Wasn’t it nice not having to fight every stupid little thing? It could be like that all the time, and we'd have so much fun together. You want me. You want this. Why fight it when things could be so much easier for us both?”

With that, he gets up, walks around the table and kneels in front of her.

“Jessica Jones. Silly little Jessica Jones. I’m the perfect man for you. Can’t you see it? I know you like being with me. I’ve given you everything you’ve ever wanted. I’m showing you the world, a world you wouldn’t even have imagined before. I take care of you, Jessica, and I always will. I’m so good to you and it kills me that you can’t see it. We’re so good together, Jessica. So good already, but we could be perfect. I know you want it, I know you do. It’s so obvious to me, and everyone else—everyone but you. You’re the only one who doesn’t realize it and that’s mad, that’s simply mad."

He takes a deep breath.

“You’re so hugely important to me. You are my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m not sure I could go on, if I’m being honest. You are my whole world, and I know it’s the same for you. I’m your whole world too. But I have to admit, I know there are other people you care about in your life. Patsy, for example. What if they weren’t in your life at all? What if they … permanently stopped being a part of your life? A part of anyone’s life? That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? Think about that." 

Her eyes widen.

“And while you're at it, what about these people, Jessica? The people you don't know? They're everywhere. What about them? It'd be a shame if they had to pay for your failure. That wouldn't be fair. Don't you think? I’ll tell you what I’ll _ask_ you to do, because I want you to choose this. It’s up to you. Right here, right now. Can you be on your best behavior? I’m asking you. Can you do that for me?”

Slowly, she looks around the room. He knows what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth.

“Fine.”

“Brilliant,” he smiles. “Everyone, put your knives down.”

There’s a huge thudding sound. Jessica’s eyes sweep the room, land on his face.

“I’m not being unreasonable, Jessica. I’m not even asking for you to meet me halfway. Just give me something to work with. That's all I ask. Make a go of this. For real. For me. Can you do that?”

There’s a long pause. “Yes," she finally manages to answer.

"Okay then." He turns to the nearest waiter. "We're ready to order now."

...

Together, Kilgrave and Jessica watch the sunset on the rooftop balcony of a high-rise with the best view of Paris. It’s incredibly romantic once he gets the flat’s owner to stop banging on the walls of the locked bathroom.

…

They take a private tour of the Louvre, the curator guiding them every step of the way. Jessica looks so good standing next to this priceless art, modeling her Chanel tweed suit. He takes photo after photo of her. Together they recreate “Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss” and the curator snaps about 50 pictures of them entwined together. Kilgrave selects the first one and saves it as the wallpaper of his phone.

The room with the Mona Lisa has been converted into an Italian restaurant, and they feed each other pasta amatriciana under her bewitching gaze. Jessica does a great impression of that famous Mona Lisa smile.

Jessica hops over the glass pyramid after dinner, fifteen or twenty times. It’s a gorgeous sight.

… 

“Tell me, Jessica, what do you want to do for Valentine’s Day?” he asks. He’s just finished watching her scale the hotel building in a custom-designed French haute couture evening gown under the cover of the darkness. She was a vision.

“I’d like to see the Eiffel Tower,” she tells him, flicking a leaf off her hair.

“Eiffel Tower? Hmm. Bit obvious, innit?” he muses, tapping his finger against his chin. She just looks at him. “But I keep forgetting it’s your first time. Oh, all right, darling. We’ll go. Give me a smile, huh?”

The sunset over Paris as seen from the Eiffel Tower is amazing. Jessica is speechless. He asks a random Chinese couple to take their picture on his phone, the sky streaked pink in the background. Him and Jessica make for a pretty fine couple.

He lifts her skirt and covertly takes her from behind. Their hands are entwined, holding onto each other and the guardrail. Everyone who walks by pays no mind to them—they’re just two people in love, enjoying the view from one of the most romantic attractions in the most romantic city in the world on the most romantic day of the year.

Jessica’s on-site Valentine’s Day present is dinner in Gustave Eiffel’s private apartment at the top of the structure. They watch the sun go down while sipping the best champagne. He’s given her what girls can only dream of. 

“I want to know what you’re thinking, Jessica,” he tells her after they finish devouring a towering croquembouche. He didn’t even have to tell her to enjoy it … she’d done that all on her own.

“Tom Cruise proposed to Katie Holmes here,” she replies, and her eyes bug. Even she’s surprised at what she just said. Kilgrave, well, he’s speechless.

“Whatever made you think of that?” he manages to stutter. His heart is beating faster than ever before.

He knows better, still, even after all this time, than to ask if she wants him to propose to her at this restaurant too. But Jessica’s always surprised him. That’s why he keeps her around.

“Trish had a huge crush on him. She was devastated,” she answers. 

For a second, all he can see is red. Jesus, he’s such a fool. He’s livid that she was thinking about stupid _Patsy_ after the beautiful Valentine’s Day they shared, after everything he’s done for her. _She's_ the one who wanted to come here.

Jessica climbs down from the Eiffel Tower after she’s finished eating dessert. She has to touch every panel on the structure before she can join him in the limo. He’s almost finished with his cigar by the time she silently climbs into the car.

When they arrive back at the hotel, he makes her jump in the courtyard until the sun comes up.

Only then is she allowed to sleep. Only then is she forgiven.

…

Kilgrave takes Jessica to Versailles, fucks her in Marie Antoinette’s bed. When he’s lounging in King Louis XIV’s throne, she gives him the best blowjob he’s ever had.

_Happy three-month anniversary, sweetheart._

They stroll around the gardens afterwards, enjoying some hot chocolate under the blinding winter sun. Her face gets a little sunburnt, like a child, and he can’t stop kissing her cheeks all night. He wishes there was a way for him to command her skin to get better.

…

One night, coming back from the opera, Kilgrave slips on a patch of ice and falls smack on his bum. There’s silence for an awful second, and then Jessica bursts out laughing. She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes bugging, but he can’t even begin to think about reprimanding her—he’s still so shocked from the pain of the fall and the joy of hearing her laugh of her own accord. My God, had he ever heard her laugh on her own? No, he doesn’t think he has. All this time, he’s been telling her to smile … he’s wasted it. He should have told her to laugh.

She’s still laughing her head off now—clever girl, she's realized he’s not going to retaliate. Her eyes are closed tight, tears streaming down her face. She's doing this because of him. She's laughing so joyously because of him.

He gets up, takes a step, and purposefully falls flat on his arse again. Jessica’s hysterical now, bending over at the knees as she guffaws. He reaches out and swipes at her knees, so she’s taken off balance and falls right next to him.

“Like that, did you?” he huffs in her ear, leaning over and rubbing her arse cheek where she fell down. Now they’ll have matching bruises. They fuck right there on the sidewalk.

The next day, he instructs the concierge to trip over the rug as he rushes to hold the door open for the two of them. Jessica laughs, but not like when he made her laugh. Same thing when the driver slips on ice when he got out of the car. He even gets the waiter to slip on a banana peel, an honest-to-God banana peel, while bringing them breakfast. Coffee scalds the guy’s face, the carafe of orange juice splatters on the wall, and the croissants are tossed as high as the ceiling. 

Nothing. Jessica doesn’t make a peep.

He’s overjoyed. Only he can make her laugh that hard. And only she can give him such joy just from being. They’re a pair. A perfect pair.

…

It snows all night, much to his delight. No more muck and grey sleet that they’ve seen so much of while going to and from museums and galleries and shops and restaurants. It’s all replaced by something so much more aesthetically pleasing, and it’s about time. Paris in snow is a whole other city and he can’t wait to explore it all over again with Jessica. 

When he wakes up, he’s so pleased with himself for thinking to barricade off the Champs-Élysées. Policemen have been guarding the entire perimeter since midnight, and they haven't let a single person or car or animal through. Now the whole stretch of one of the world’s most famous streets is filled with untouched snow.

Good thing he bought Jessica and himself appropriate winter wear all those weeks ago.

Today’s going to be fantastic. All they’re going to do is play in the snow and do all the things his parents didn’t let him do when he was a lad: snowmen, snow angels ... maybe even a snowball fight, if Jessica only throws with 15 percent of her total body strength.

He can’t wait. They’re going to have so much fun.

“Snow day today, love,” he whispers in Jessica’s ear, walking his fingers up and down her back while she slowly wakes up.

Jessica Jones is a vision in sporty outerwear. He leads her by the elbow to the start of the Champs-Élysées, past the border of guards he’d spent all morning coordinating while she slept. Together, they stare down the winter wonderland he’s created just for her. The Champs-Élysées is their personal playground. It’s a stunning sight.

Jessica gasps before she can stop herself. That happened. He knows it. He heard the gasp himself. Oh man, is he pleased.

“You shouldn’t have,” she says, turning to look at him.

He’s so glad he thought to tell her not to be sarcastic or mean today while they put on their snow boots. Usually her cheek amused him, but he didn’t want to take any chances with her right now. Today needed to be perfect. 

To start, they walk up and down the Champs-Élysées on each sidewalk, and then down the middle of the street, just because they could. Just for the hell of it. 

They made snow angel after snow angel after snow angel. Every single time, they’re so close that even their snow angels are connected. His idea, of course.

Together they build a whole army of snowmen, using carrots and sticks and bits of charcoals and hats and scarves personally delivered to them by Paris’s chief of police. Jessica has the brilliant idea to use the carrot as a penis for one of her snowman, and Kilgrave chuckles in spite of himself. 

When it starts snowing, Kilgrave and Jessica make out under the falling snowflakes for what seems like hours. He had no idea his body could feel so simultaneously hot and cold—it’s _amazing._ By the time he pulls away, Jessica’s great big strawberry of a mouth is puffier and pinker than ever. Her cheeks are reddened too. It’s such a contrast to her pale skin and dark hair. She’s so beautiful for him.

They trek up the Arc de Triomphe. He takes panoramic shots of the city—Jessica’s in the center of each one.

When he’s gotten too cold and wet, they tramp over to the Ladurée on the Champs-Élysées. The wait staff he’d compelled this morning graciously take off their wet coats and socks. Kilgrave and Jessica tug on thick, fluffy sweaters and cashmere sweatpants—the only sweatpants he’ll ever be caught dead in.

Snuggling on a chaise in front of the fire is also a good way to warm up. Jessica’s talking his ear off about what she used to do on snow days as a kid, how she’d start snowball fights with her brother and help her dad shovel the driveway to earn extra allowance. Best of all, she said, was the hot chocolate her mom would prepare with extra, extra marshmallows on top.

Kilgrave kisses her cheek and excuses himself for a second.

Croque madames and thick, crispy chips for lunch, macarons and hot chocolate _with homemade marshmallows_ for dessert, _you’re welcome_ , Jessica … and then they’re back on the chaise, dozing now in front of the flames.

When he wakes up, he fucks her awake on the soft cushions.

…

They do it all again the next day at the Bois de Boulogne, except he fucks her awake on a bear rug.

…

He nudges Jessica awake. Bleary-eyed, she looks over at where he’s bouncing on his heels, already dressed in a three-piece eggplant-colored suit.

“Let’s go somewhere warmer. I'm thinking somewhere in the Mediterranean. You like Greece, don’t you, Jessica?” he says.


	2. Crete

Kilgrave has never been to Crete before … imagine that. Jessica hasn’t either, of course, but that’s less of a surprise.

They experience everything together for the first time: Every museum, every restaurant, every shop, every public square. He can’t decide what’s better: showing Jessica around to all his favorite places, or trying new things out with Jessica. Less control that way, obviously. 

But … now, he can remember moments as “our first time” and say things like “When I went here for the first time with Jessica Jones” and, well, that’s a beautiful thing in itself. That's exactly what he wanted and now he has it. 

…

They stay at an amazing private villa in Chania, right on the water. As soon as they get to their new home, they splash around in the heated infinity pool. There’s something to be said about underwater sex. 

The villa’s styled in the old-way, outfitted with priceless antiques and hanging artwork. There are at least six columns in every room. Kilgrave feels like Greek royalty.

No, not royalty: Like a Greek god. And Jessica is his goddess, forever present by his side.

...

Kilgrave is glad he left most of of Jessica’s Paris clothes behind. The little black dresses and leather pants and six-inch heels wouldn’t have fit in at all. Not here in breezy, beachy Crete. He knew that though. Case in point: her suitcase was mostly packed with lacy lingerie and sheer negligees and silky kimonos.

He dresses Jessica in lots of blues during this trip. What can he say, he’s inspired by the cloudless skies, the endless sea. Her dinner attire’s purple, same as always, but there’s something about the way she looks in blue while walking on the beach, into the grass, next to white houses. He makes an exception. 

Besides, blue is his second-favorite color.

He’s just as casual, remarkably so. Blue features a lot in his Cretan wardrobe too, so he matches Jessica in a completely different way now. No, there’s no denim, there never will be, but he bends some of his personal style rules with the navy chinos and the lightweight linen shirts. Only on the beach, though.

…

It’s a little different, being in a country where not everyone automatically understands him. But he gets by.

…

Jessica's been awfully mouthy lately. Well, she's always had quite the mouth on her, that he knows very well, but she talks back to him, uses sarcasm, rolls her eyes. Eventually he realizes she always does this, he's just been stopping her from doing it. Lately he's been a little too lax. She's only jumped once or twice for him since they've been here. She's getting used to it, he realizes.

She's getting used to him.

And he can't bring himself to care. Jessica's always good for a chuckle; he gets such a kick out of all the things she says to him. She can be really amusing sometimes. Much more interesting than all the other floozies he brought along with him before Jessica fought her way into his life.

He finds he likes debating her. She can make good points sometimes. Most of their little debates start off about him and end up going somewhere completely different. Enlightenment philosophers. Thomas Jefferson. God. 

No one's ever tried to debate him before. _Ever._

Sure, he'll cut her off sometimes. He makes her shut up once in a while. It never gets old watching her jump. He wonders if it'll ever get old, listening to her talk at him with that tone. He hopes for her sake that it doesn't.

_..._

Jessica, as it turns out, wants to visit the historic heritage sites. He takes her to every single one, including excavations that aren’t open to the public.

Look at him, he even wears work boots to the sites—mostly because he knows they’re going to get dusty and dirty and he throws them out afterwards, of course, but still: he’s never worn work boots in his life. They feel heavy on his feet.

Jessica’s still nimble as a cat, prancing around the sites, scraping dust off of Minoan walls, brushing sand away from fragments of Venetian pottery still stuck in the ground. During her playtime, she gets smudges of dirt and clay on her cheekbone and he cleans it off with his silk handkerchief. Sometimes he even wets his thumb and rubs the mess off himself.

She looks right at home at the Byzantine and Venetian fortifications, has a blast at the Minoan excavations on Kastelli hill. They take little day trips to the ancient harbor in Falassama, the temples in Aptera, the graves in Polyrrhenia. She takes home artifacts and shards from each place, one priceless artifact holding another. 

He lets down his guard after he takes panoramic views of the whole gulf of Kissamos, Jessica standing tall and proud in her canvas hat in the center of each one. What does he do? He goes and buys himself a khaki-colored fedora. He had to. She’s his little Marion Ravenwood, and he’s her Indiana Jones.

…

He’s not too familiar with classic Greek mythology, but Jessica is—oh, how she keeps him on his toes. Turns out dear old dead dad used to read her the stories around the campfire or around the dinner table or wherever normal, _loving_ fathers read bedtime stories to their child. 

Jessica recounts the famous Theseus and the Minotaur tale during an olive oil tasting one afternoon.

“There’s this guy, Theseus. He’s Greek. From Athens. He gets on this ship and sail to Crete along with these virgin girls and warriors so they can be devoured by this monster—the Minotaur—as _tribute_. It’s against their will. They don’t want to do it but they’re forced to go. They all have lives of their own, people they love, things they want to do, and—” 

“Enough, Jessica,” he interrupts. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “We get it. No need to indulge in petty grandstanding. Stick to the goddamn facts.”

If looks could kill … good thing she doesn’t have that weapon in her arsenal. 

It makes his stomach churn. “Don’t look at me like that. _Smile,_ Jessica. _Mean it._ ”

Her smile almost blinds him.

It’s a shame, really. They’d been getting along so well. He really thought she’d gotten over this—that they were past all of that.

He dumps an entire liter of olive oil over her head.

“Finish telling the story, Jessica. Truthfully, and _without_ the personal commentary, thank you very much.”

…

That night at dinner, Jessica lovingly feeds him every crust of bread, every marinated olive, every crunch of salad, every swirled-up forkful of pasta amatriciana, every sip of Sangiovese wine, every last bite of tiramisu—all without spilling a drop or a crumb on his Prada pantsuit.

…

He signs them up for a his-and-her spa day at the island’s nicest hotel. He found it on Trip Advisor—it had very good reviews. Now he can see why. 

He hasn’t felt this relaxed maybe ever, in his life, after the three-hour massage. Jessica’s skin is buffed and massaged and moisturized so that it’s practically glowing. He steals cucumbers off her eyes and munches them in her ear, just to see her squirm. When he does that, she tenses and her collarbone sticks out so much he could sip wine from it. He decides to lick it instead.

He can’t even wait until they get home to initiate skin-to-skin contact with their new polished skin. So he empties the entire resort and him and Jessica camp out in the best suite, just fucking and fucking and fucking. 

Once they're finally spent, she dryly asks if he wants a cigarette. Kilgrave chuckles, wraps an arm around her. He loves her humor sometimes.

…

“You’re a monster,” Jessica fumes after he cleans out the private stock of Crete’s best winery.

Kilgrave and Jessica were such superb wine connoisseurs during their wine-tasting tour that the owner simply decided to gift them with a couple dozen bottles of prized wine, even bottles his ancestors had made. For free.  
  
“What? I haven’t even killed anyone since Paris, Jessica!” he retorts. “I’m genuinely offended!”

“I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Oh, please,” he snorts, “You think I’m the one who’s going to drink all this wine? I’m doing this for you, Jessica. I know how you like your drink. Do you want it or not? I can stop them from loading the truck right now—just give me the word. Just don’t expect me to serve you any alcohol from here on out.” 

She pauses. For a second, he thinks she’ll do it, she’ll actually tell him. But the moment passes and he justified in knowing that she won’t.

Jessica Jones can say all she wants but when push comes to shove, she’s just as selfish and greedy as he is, in a way only unloved orphans can be.

…

They drift listlessly across the island. There’s not much to do here—how could there be after Paris? But the views are spectacular. Mountains one day, beaches the next. He’s never seen so many goats in his _life._

Kilhrave has always held a healthy, if not distrustful appreciation for nature—he can’t make a sun set at the right moment, but he’ll be damned sure that he and Jessica will be sitting on the edge of the dock, feet dangling off the side, when that spectacular orange ball drops straight into the sea. There’s a lot of nature here.

Now his pictures have a different nature background in every single one: meadows, fields, lakes, mountains, fauna, forests, beaches, cities, villages, towns, temples, churches, castles, fortresses. It’s a welcome change from the city scenes in New York and Paris.

He’s said it before and he’ll say it again: she looks good wearing everything, doing everything, everywhere.

Their mornings consist of sleeping in late, rolling around during lazy bouts of morning sex. They decide together what they’ll do, where they’ll go, during breakfast in bed. It’s kind of refreshing, not having to go through a list of everything he wants to show Jessica.

He’s so much more relaxed here. During their daily walks on the beach, he rolls up his cotton shirtsleeves, cuffs his slim-cut chinos, walks barefoot on the beach just like Jessica. His phone stays in his pocket more, his watch spends most days left behind on his nightstand.

He calls their trip a vacation from vacation. Jessica disagrees.

“Your whole life is a vacation. And now you’re making mine a fucked-up version of it, too,” she snidely tells him after dinner (lamb shank with salad greens, absolutely succulent).

Oh. So she’s in one of _those_ moods. It’s going to be one of _those_ nights.

Jessica sneers at him while pouring herself another glass of raki, a type of homemade Cretan brandy with 45-percent alcohol content. The restaurateur told them to drink the spirit from shot glasses; Jessica switched to a wine glass after her third one, practically daring him to make her stop. 

Kilgrave won’t. He doesn’t mind. His woman drinks like a fish—so what? They all have their crosses to bear.

Besides, he’s learned by now that when she drinks herself to an inebriated, uninhibited state, she turns into a wild animal in the sack. He suspects it’s because she’s forgotten who he is by that point, but he’s doesn’t mind, not when she wants to ride him like she does when she’s drunk and horny. The sex is even better when she’s _pissed off_ , drunk and horny, as she will undoubtedly be very soon. If he winds her up, pokes and prods her, provokes her _just_ enough … then he sets her off in the best way possible.

She’s lucky he hasn’t taken to pouring the whole decanter down her throat.

“Wot, like you’ve got a job to get to back in New York? Gonna save the world one measly temp job at a time? Come off it, Jessica. We both know you have nothing to go back to in New York. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And no one to go to back to either, if I’m not mistaken—where’s your _Patsy_ been this whole time, huh?” he counters, throwing his words like knives. He know she can take it, knows she’ll turn them right back onto him. 

She downs the rest of her drink and slams her glass so hard on the table he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter on impact. She’s practically breathing fire now.

“ _Trish_ doesn’t know where I am right now because you haven’t let me contact her this whole goddamn time, you fucking prick. I don’t have anywhere to stay because I’ve been forced to live with you for the past four months. In fact, I don’t _get_ to have anything to do because you’ve taken that choice away from me, as with all other major decisions. Now I’m just your living, breathing sex toy. Right? That’s what you wanted, right? I wasn't created to be your plaything, you know, but that’s all you’ve let me be.”

Jessica is panting heavily, having finished with her rant. Her chest is heaving beautifully. She foregoes the glass and chugs right from the bottle now— _atta girl_ —and sends him a positively murderous glare.

_Well done, Jessica._

He’s unbelievably turned on. It’s primal, his desire to clear the table with one fell swoop and throw her on the wooden surface. He reels himself in, remains seated, remains calm—infuriatingly calm, probably, to Jessica. She’s lucky he’s such a patient man. Their impending sex will be absolutely explosive, he can already tell.

So he chuckles. Judging by her comically huge doe eyes, he can tell she wasn’t expecting that. So he laughs and laughs. “Oh? And what do you suppose you were created for, Jessica? Don't tell me it was to be a superhero. We both know that's not true.”  
  
She's furious, staring at him across the table with hard, calculating eyes more commonly seen over the barrel of a gun. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head.  
  
“Well then, we also both know why it's not true, right? My one and only attempt at this superhero thing was thwarted by the villain, who hasn't let me out since,” she spits out.  
  
“Said the damsel in distress, lounging in her custom-made evening gown on a patio in Greece, after spending a month and change in Paris,” he tartly replies, swirling the wine in his glass. “Not much of a superhero if you get taken down on your first try, hmm? Does that even make you a hero? Hard to tell. That’s up for debate. Besides, a true villain would have killed you the first chance he got, just to get rid of you, don’t you think? And yet here we are.”

She opens her mouth to respond.

“Save it, Jessica. It doesn't matter what you believe, it matters what you do. Only the weak believe. The _strong_ do,” he says, smiling sardonically at her. “And baby, I _do_ you.”

She ignores his dig. “What you _do_ is continually reduce me to acting as your primary source of amusement when I'm much, much more than that.”  
  
He tsks. “I know, sweetheart. But you do it so well anyway.” 

With that, all the fight goes out of her. He sees it in her shoulders, her neck, her jaw—her eyes. Honestly, he’s a little taken aback.  
  
“I don't even know why I bother,” she mutters, more to herself. She takes a swig from the bottle. “It’s not like anything I say will make a difference.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, and finally stands up. “See what your words are doing to me?”

She rolls her eyes, pulls another swig. She grimaces when she’s done. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, sweetheart. And you’re right: Your words don’t really matter, not in the long, grand scheme of things. But right here? Right now? Jessica, you have no idea what you do to me when you talk to me like that.” 

“You disgust me,” she growls. _Dear God._

“See? Now that’s what I love about you, Jessica," he tells her. "You’re the only one that would ever think to say that to me. No one else would try that. ‘Yes men’ are easy—too easy, as you can very well imagine for a person like me. If I want someone to agree with me, coddle me, placate me, I don’t have to try very hard or go very far. But someone who isn’t afraid to put up a fight? Someone who speaks their mind and actually has something interesting to say when I let them? That’s rare. You have no idea how bloody rare that is, Jessica, and that makes me appreciate it all the more. Makes me appreciate _you_ all the more.”

“Is that what you think you’re doing? _Appreciating_ me?”

“I think I’m feeding you—or, as is often the case with you, making sure you have enough to drink, no matter what it costs. I think I’m giving you a roof over your head, in the best possible places. I think I’m clothing you in the finest fashions, introducing you to art and culture and music, showing you the best the world has to offer. I _know_ I love you. That’s what I’m doing, Jessica Jones, I’m _loving_ you. I love you. I want you to be the best that you can be and have the best that you can have. I want you to be beside the person who loves you the most on this blue marble of a planet, the person who loves you more than anything in this world,” he says, all the while sliding over to where she is.

When he finishes talking, he’s standing right in front of her. 

There’s a pregnant pause where they just look at each other.

And then his lips are crashing down on hers, greedily, improbably. She bites his lip, he pulls her hair. Her hands shove his chest, and good thing he told her to tamper down her powers earlier. Now instead of flying backwards, he simply steps back a little, takes her hands, holds them over her head and walks her over to the table. She bends backwards over it, her back hitting the surface with a loud thud.

Kilgrave tastes blood but can’t tell if it’s his or hers. He laps it up all the same.

He pulls on the tablecloth, sending dishes and carafes and glasses and silverware clanging on the floor. It’s exactly what he’d been imaging since the beginning of this little tiff. He hikes up Jessica’s dress, running his hands up and down her smooth thighs.

_Oh, yes. Well done, Jessica Jones._

… 

“Say, Jessica, how good are you at psychology?” he asks, reading the paper on the patio. It’s dusk and they’re sipping homemade Cretan wine.

“I took Psych 101 in college,” she offers.

“Did you now? Hmm. Interesting," he replies, a little bemused.

She waits. 

“Well, just so you know, apparently there’s this questionnaire that can be asked by any two people in the whole wide world, and it leads to more intimacy in their relationship, whatever it is. And I have to say, some of these questions are actually pretty good. Couples that ask each other these questions fall more in love.”

“Why do you even want to do that in the first place?” she asks.

He’s surprised: he’s usually the one asking all the questions. It’s quite nice being on the receiving end. It’s like she gives a damn about him without having to be told to feel that way.

“Wot, the survey?”

“Yeah. The survey.”

He shrugged. “Something to try out. I want to test us. Let’s give it a go, shall we?”

“Sure.”

“Be totally honest in all of your replies. Got that?” he purrs.

She nods.

“Good. Okay. Question one: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Trish.”

He sighs. “Wrong.”

“How can it be wrong? It’s my opinion,” she shoots back. “You asked me.”

“Yes, I know, but you should have said _me."_  

She huffs. “Good point. I choose you. You’d probably be in the room anyway and besides, I wouldn’t want to subject Trish to you.”

He remembers wondering about a three-way with Jessica and her _precious Patsy_ back in Paris. Hmmm.

Well, he _did_ ask for total honesty…

“Fine. Ask me the same question.”

She reads it out loud to him. “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

“I choose you,” he sweetly replies, and she rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, Jessica, I’ve chosen you every day for the past three months, three weeks and five days,” he protests. 

“I know you’re serious,” she says. “You could make literally anyone in the world have dinner with you.”

“Right. But I choose you,” he tensely reminds her.

“Don’t I know it.”

They stare at each other across the table. Jessica swigs her wine, still deadlocked in her gaze. He has to admire that. She certainly doesn’t back away from anything when she puts her mind to it.

“Very well. On to the next one. Ooh, this is a good one for you. All right, Jessica Jones. Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

She opens her mouth to reply.

He reaches over, and lays a hand on her forearm.“Wait. Let me answer for you. Yes, you did want to be famous, as a superhero. In fact, that’s how we met, isn’t that right? Remember that, Jessica?”

“Yes.”

“What was that preposterous name Patsy came up with? _Jewel_ , was it?” he sneers, laughing a little. He remembers Jessica told him that charming little tidbit at dinner the first night they met.

“Yes.”

“Don’t know where in the world she got that name from. Sounds like an Elizabeth Taylor perfume name, if you ask me. Can you imagine what would have happened if you went through with that crazy cockaminny plan? ‘This just in: _Jewel_ saves Manhattan from Dr. Doom, or whatever those villains are calling themselves these days. _Jewel_ stops a bank robbery. _Jewel_ joins the Avengers. _Jewel_ is given the keys to the city.’”

Jessica merely takes another sip.

“Tell me, is that true, Jessica? Is that what you would have said?”

She shrugs. “More or less.”

 “All right. Same question. Answer it for me,” he commands. He’s eager to hear what she says.

“Easy. No, you don’t want to be famous. If you did, you would have done it by now.”  
  
“Excellent response, Jessica,” he preens. _Easy, she said easy._

Kilgrave scans the list of questions, smiles to himself as he reads one of them. He shoves the paper at Jessica. “Read number eight out loud.”

“Eight,” she says, stiffly.

“Haha, very funny. Read the entire statement out loud, Jessica.”

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common,” she says. For a second, it almost looks like she was clenching her jaw, but he’s sure it was just a trick of the light. She tosses the paper on the table disinterestedly.

“Answer it.” 

“We both have secret powers.”

“Good girl,” he says automatically. That was the main response he was looking for, and Jessica got it in the first go! “Your power is the first thing I noticed about you. Did you know that?”

“Yeah. Ditto.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful. All right, Jessica, two more, off you go." 

He waits, patiently.

“We’re both in Crete right now.”

“Technically, yes. Let’s switch it to, ‘we’re both in Crete right now and we’re having the times of our lives.’ You agree, don’t you, Jessica?”

“Agreed.”

“Fantastic. Last one?”

She hesitates, then grins, wickedly. “We’re both care about me, in our own separate ways.”

He should give her a spanking for her cheek. But she smiled at him, of her own accord. Course, she yielded it like a weapon, but semantics are semantics. After their last fuckfest, he’s found he sometimes likes it when Jessica, a powerless kitty, tries to swipe him with her adorable baby claws.

“Right you are, Jessica. I love that you’ve put so much thought into all the ways I love you,” he easily replies, indulging in her banter. 

Her smile freezes in place.

He continues, “Well, there’s no need for me to answer that question. You practically took the words out of my mouth, anyway. You know what? We don’t need to do this. We already know each other so well.”

Smiling, he crumples up the paper and tosses it over his shoulder. “Cheers to us.”

They clink glasses over the table. Jessica downs the rest of her glass and reaches for the bottle. 

Kilgrave pauses. He stands up. “Let’s go, Jessica." 

She does the same, starts walking away. “Leave the wine, _Jessica_.”

…

They get pottery lessons. Him—taking pottery lessons! His hands have never been this dirty. The clay dries into his skin, gets under his fingernails, makes his palms itch.

The best part about it is that he and Jessica recreate the _Ghost_ pottery wheel scene. Yes, of course, they HAD to do the _Ghost_ scene—that’s the whole reason why they went to make stupid vases in the first place.

Jessica had never seen _Ghost_. Once he found that out, he insisted they watch it snuggled up on the sofa, feeding each other the best Szechuan takeout on the island.

“Really? Not even during a sleepover with _Patsy_ where you rewound the VHS over and over again and dreamt about one day doing that with a future boyfriend?” he had playfully asked, even waggling his eyebrows for good measure.

“Nope,” Jessica had replied.

“Ah.”

...

Kilgrave specially imports a crate of Ruffles cheddar and sour cream potato chips for Jessica after she got drunk one night and wouldn’t shut up about them.

When they go out to the patio for breakfast the morning after, Kilgrave makes sure that the snack-sized bags are beautifully arranged in a handwoven basket directly in front of Jessica’s place setting, right next to the pot of coffee and the carafe of orange juice.

She snorts and looks over at him. Still smirking, she immediately opens a bag, bites down on one of those awful-looking neon orange things, and holds out the bag for him.

“Want some?” she offers.

He eyes the bag distastefully. “I’d rather not.”

She shrugs. “Your loss.” And proceeds to ignore the plate of homemade pastries in favor of chomping down on three bags of potato chips for breakfast. He can barely stomach the stench, the sight, the smell.

But she’s so goddamn happy.

Really, of all the things he’s done for her …

…

He rolls over in the middle of the night one night and finds Jessica wide-awake, lying on her back, eyes never leaving the ceiling. Sleepily, he props his head up on his hand and reaches for her with the other under the covers, tracing circles on her stomach.

“What is it, Jessica? Tell me.”

 “Trish,” she whimpers, closing her eyes.

He blows out air dejectedly. Really, he’s starting to get tired of all this St. Patsy bull crap. They’ve already had this conversation, haven’t they?

“What about her?” he nudges.

Jessica inhales, exhales, he feels it all on her stomach. “I miss her,” she softly admits.

He has to remind himself that Jessica, like him, can count the number of people she truly cares about on one hand: Patsy, and now him. She’s known Patsy for a lengthier period of time and has thus loved Patsy longer, all because Patsy was lucky enough to have shared the same breathing air with a vulnerable Jessica after the plucky teenager went and lost her own family. But he wasn’t going down without a fight. It’d be tricky, but he’d figure out a way.

Kilgrave inches his hand lower. “Do you miss her now, Jessica?” 

...

He’s standing in front of the closet the next morning when a towel-clad Jessica steps out of the shower.

“Help me pick something out to wear on the flight to New York,” he tells her, cradling her chin, taking a kiss from her. “We’re going to pay Patsy a visit. Aren’t you excited?”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a link to that survey I mentioned: http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html?smid=fb-nytimes&smtyp=cur&_r=0 
> 
> And the Ghost scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXfxUVjHFl0


	3. New York City

Luckily for Kilgrave, he’d been having his _paid_ security team monitor Patsy since Jessica’s Paris freak out over her beloved sister, weeks before this impromptu trip to the Big Apple. 

Luckily, in the sense that the security team has proven to be worth the big bucks.

See, they’ve already broken into Patsy’s apartment and set up security cameras to monitor her every move. The fact that they discovered along the way that she was remodeling Jessica’s old bedroom was an added bonus.

And by going through her mail, the team discovered that Patsy was going to be out of town on a business trip for the next couple of days. Oh, how he had laughed when he heard that. No time like the present to make his move. 

Jessica had no idea, of course. And she wouldn’t. It wasn’t necessary.

…

A terrified jet pilot flies circles over New York City until Kilgrave and Jessica have completed their now-traditional mile-high lovemaking session.

…

They head right to the love nest he had created for him and Jessica—it’s where they’d been living together before they left, and all that. Their New York home sweet home was a nice, big townhouse Chelsea that he’d purchased _legally_ and with _actual money,_ as he had stressed to Jessica when they first moved in.

Of course, she didn’t know that he’d obtained the funding after making some smart moves with his stock market portfolio. Obviously.

They take a short nap to rest up before it’s time to go out. He sleepily commands Jessica to fall asleep—he hasn’t had to do that in a while.

…

All of Jessica’s clothes were out of season now, but she did still have a beautiful orchid-hued cocktail dress that she had never worn. That would do nicely. He matched his tie  and ascot to her outfit.

They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful couple at Il Rosso that evening.

During dinner, they compile Patsy’s daily schedule.

Patsy’s very methodical, he notes, and Jessica says she always has been—even when she was a flailing child star and a pill popper, she always hit her mark. It seems that now that Patsy’s clean, she’s even less likely to derail from her schedule. Goody for her.

Once Jessica figures out what’s going on, her face contorts itself into a snarl before he can delicately smooth out her furrowed brows with an outstretched finger. He loves his little fighter.

She has no idea he already knew Patsy’s daily routine, and had for quite some time. He’s not about to correct her, and gift her the mercy of knowing she won’t be responsible for giving up what really amounts to basically nothing about her friend.

Kilgrave refuses any responsibility either. Patsy’s done this to herself. 

Patsy leaves the house at 5:30 a.m. to go to the gym. She’s back by 7:30 a.m. 

Patsy leaves for the office at 8:30 a.m., stopping along the way for a green smoothie at her local juice bar (he really hates New York sometimes). She ends up at the office at 9 a.m.

Patsy prefers doing an interview in the morning so she can edit it and write the copy for when the broadcasted interview is posted online that afternoon. That means she usually works straight till noon, when she’ll grab something to eat or meet someone at a restaurant for a business lunch. She’s back at the office at 1 p.m., if she can help it.

Coffee break is at 4, more or less, and then she doesn’t leave the office again until after 6:30.

If it’s Thursday through Saturday, she’ll go out some of the days, but she’s quite the little homebody during the week. 

All this, according to Jessica. All this, confirmed by his security team.

That’s the problem with having schedules: You become too easy to track, too easy to be attacked. Kilgrave much prefers the spontaneity that comes with the power to do anything he wants.

…

On the ride home from pasta amatriciana and tiramisu, the limousine driver pulls over in front of Patsy’s tiny apartment building.

“Here’s the moment of truth, Jessica. It’s a Monday night. Patsy will be home, right?” he asks, removing his hand from her knee. 

“It’s Tuesday,” she informs him.

He hums. “Is it? Doesn’t matter. Same thing. Anyway. My question still stands: Patsy should be home, _right_?”

“Unless you did something to her,” Jessica accuses, crossing her arms. Funny, she looks pissed off instead of scared.

He leans in and gets right up in her face. She stops breathing. There we go.

“Now, you listen to me, Jessica Jones. I haven’t done a single thing to your Patsy. I have not interfered or changed her life in any way. I haven’t influenced anyone to do the same either, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve been with you this whole time, so you know I haven’t contacted her since we’ve been back. We’re just randomly going to pop in for a visit. Understand?”

Fearfully, she nods.

Sighing, he goes through all the demands he can think of: don’t warn Patsy or ask her for help (useless, really, since he knows Patsy is out of town, but he’s got to play along); don’t warn or ask anyone else for help they might encounter; don’t do anything to try and leave him; don’t try to get herself killed, himself killed. Things like that. Rather tedious, really, but he’s got to play the part. When he’s done, they get out of the car and walk into the building.

Jessica’s trailing behind him, her lips getting thinner and thinner with each step. He wouldn’t command it any differently. Let her think what she wants. All it’s going to do is prove his point even more.

The doorman brings them upstairs, unlocks Patsy’s door, stands outside and refuses to let anyone else in. 

Kilgrave goes to yell something out, then thinks better of it. “Go on, Jessica. Don’t you want your sister to hear your voice? Call out for her,” he hisses in Jessica’s ear, pushing her through the doorway. “Do it.”

“Trish?” she calls out, her voice wavering a little. She takes a couple steps in. “Trish? It’s me. Jessica.”

Silence has never sounded so loud.

She turns and looks at Kilgrave, who shrugs. “I told you, I haven’t interfered with her life in any way,” he acidly replies. “Don’t you think she’d come running out at the sound of your voice, if she’s missed you as much as you missed her?”

Jessica swallows. Then she walks into the kitchen, sounding for all the world like she’s calling for a cat or a lost pet. “Trish? Trish?”

Kilgrave’s at her heels, following her around the apartment. Now that he’s here in person, he can truly admire the fact that Patsy has better taste than he would have thought, for a former-child-star-turned-drug-addict-turned-journalist. Too bad it didn’t rub off on Jessica.

Living room? No sign of her. Not in the dining room either. Pantry’s a no-go too. Bathrooms are clear. Office is empty.

That leaves two rooms now: Patsy’s room and Jessica’s room.

“Which one do you want to try first?” he politely asks. 

Jessica doesn’t even respond to him, just takes a step towards Patsy’s door. Her hand is on the doorknob and she closes her eyes in a silent prayer before turning the knob.

The room is empty. The bed is made. Jessica doesn’t look under the bed but she does check the closet and the master bathroom. Her face is crestfallen by the time she makes it over to the door of her old bedroom.

Kilgrave’s back in the kitchen now, pouring them Lagavulin 16 that he was surprised to find in Patsy’s cupboard. He doesn’t bother following Jessica.

He knows what Jessica’s going to see. He knows what Jessica will feel. If he’s there in the room, at her back, breathing down her neck, he’s going to get the brunt of her anger in that moment.

He knows that now. He won’t let that happen.

Kilgrave wants— _needs_ —all of this to happen very organically. 

So he gives Jessica her space. Doesn’t call out when he’s poured the drinks. Lets five, ten minutes go by without hearing a peep from Jessica. Finishes a drink by the time she comes out and slowly closes the door behind her, the final click of the lock sounding hollow and final. He can tell she’s been crying. Wordlessly, he offers her a glass.

She downs it in one go.

He takes back her empty glass with one hand and offers her his drink with the other. She downs that too.

“Her toothbrush was in the bathroom,” she dully remarks, more to herself. “Her face cream. Her deodorant.”

 _I know, Jessica, I had someone buy the same products and leave them there,_ Kilgrave thinks to himself. But he isn’t annoyed with Jessica for telling him things he already knows. It’s a sign of how well this ruse is working.

“Trish is redoing my bedroom. The floor’s all ripped up. My bed is gone. All my stuff is ….” She trails off, lets out a huge sigh and looks down. Kilgrave can already tell she’s holding back tears. “I don’t even know,” she mutters, sounding glum.

“There, there, Jessica,” he murmurs, rubbing her back. “I’m here. I’m here for you. I told you, I was the only person in the world who has ever truly cared for you. I’m sorry you found out like this, but now you know it’s true.” 

Her eyes stay glued to the floor.

“I was gonna have Patsy tell you herself that I’m the only one that includes you in their life but … I think this says everything,” he adds, trying not to overdo it.

He excuses himself to the bathroom while Jessica washes and dries the glasses and puts everything back so Trish will never know they were here. She’s silent, quieter than she’s ever been when not compelled to shut the fuck up.

One final look around the place, to make sure everything’s where it should be, and then they’re out.

Kilgrave escorts Jessica to the limo with a hand on her lower back and she doesn’t say a thing about it. 

…

That night, Jessica curls up around him in a fetal position when she sleeps, like John Lennon in that magazine cover. She’s even naked, too. He closes his eyes and basks in her warmth. 

…

For breakfast the next morning, Kilgrave has fresh New York bagels delivered to their home, along with some other goodies. The housekeeper slices the bagels, throws them in the toaster, makes a thing of fresh-squeezed orange juice, gets the Nespresso going, leaves the cream cheese on the counter to soften.

When everything is perfect, he picks up the tray to take to Jessica for breakfast in bed.

He doesn’t make a peep about the crumbs in the sheets or the cream cheese smeared on her pillowcase. She doesn’t thank him but he doesn’t push it.

…

They spend their morning at Saks Fifth Avenue. Jessica chooses a tie for him. He picks out a tight secretary-looking outfit for her, complete with nude fishnet stockings, black pumps with pencil-thin heels and a mulberry-colored crocodile Hemès Birkin. Jessica has never looked more professional in her life.

“Just the one outfit, today?” she scoffs. 

He bites his tongue. At least she’s back to her fighting self. _For now._  

“I figure we’ll take it on a day-by-day basis,” he returns. “You know I do enjoy these shopping trips of ours very, very much.”

...

He’s been getting updates about Poor Patsy. Her plane was delayed two hours, there was an accident coming in from the airport, and she was forced to go straight to the office instead of home so she can make her show. 

Best of all? None of this was his fault.

He almost wants to tell Jessica this— _see, Jessica, I’m not responsible for everything bad that happens in this world._

Instead, he takes Jessica to Patsy’s office, where he makes the secretary fetch another computer chair. He sits side-by-side behind the desk with Jessica while they wait for Patsy. 

He gives Jessica every demand he thought of this morning. When she sees Patsy, she can’t make a sound. She can’t move a muscle. All she will do is stare straight ahead. She can’t bring any attention to herself—can’t do anything that would make the woman look at her.

Patsy has to look at Jessica all on her own. And she won’t. He knows this. In fact, he’s banking on it.

He knows how she works, this Patsy. He’s studied her. She’s a grade-A Working Woman. She runs her own show, ergo she doesn’t have time for the little people—in that way, they’re a lot alike.

Patsy has a big show planned for today, some exclusive with the mayor or whatever. She’s been tweeting about it all morning from the airport, probably just so she could have something to do before boarding, probably so she could feel like she was keeping busy and doing something productive while her ass fell asleep from sitting in the same cramped airport seat for too long. She’s so obvious, Patsy.

And to think the fates almost aligned so Patsy would have missed the opportunity to interview the mayor! Patsy will be thankful that it didn’t happen like that. And she’ll be stressed. Worried, too. She’ll be thinking about her show, everything she has to do once she’s on air, every question she has to ask, every segue she has to utter. As soon as she gets to the office, all she’s going to be thinking about is her, and her work. She’s not going to have time to say hello to the stupid secretary.

One hand job from Jessica later, he gets the text. Patsy is downstairs, on her way up. Her assistant, the little girl one, rushes over to the door, hovering anxiously. The chit doesn’t even notice the two strangers sitting where the secretary is supposed to be.

Everything is going exactly the way he wanted it, and he didn’t have to compel anyone to make it all happen!

“I’ve been with you all day. Remember that,” he whispers in Jessica’s ear, tracing her jawline with his finger. “I haven’t interfered at all. I promise.” Then he steps to the side, out of sight.

The elevator dings.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy steps out, starts click-clacking down the hallway as fast as she could manage with all her bags.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

The assistant opens the door, starts greeting Patsy.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy smiles, dumps her bags into the girl’s arms and walks through the doorway in one fell swoop. She grabs the proffered folders and steps into the lobby. 

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

“Have the final edits been proofed? The ones I sent over this morning. Yes? Okay, good. I’ll need them on my desk before the start of the show. And who’s been talking to the mayor’s people? Jonathan—was it Jonathan? Or was it Adam? I can’t remember,” Patsy rattles off as they make their way through the lobby.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy walks right by the desk, still jabbering. Her head doesn’t turn, not even an inch, to look at the secretary. Kilgrave, who’s off to the side, perfectly ready to pounce if things had gone all wrong and Patsy actually bothered to say hello to the secretary, grins widely.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy continues into the other room. “And the mayor’s office, they’ve sent over the official photo, right? No? Not yet? Well, are they going to? Remind them we’ll need something when we post the link.”

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

The door closes behind Patsy. Her voice is faint until it’s nothing, and there’s no one but him and Jessica. Neither of them are making a sound.

Jessica drops her face into her hands. Her shoulders are shaking but she’s silent. He lets her mourn her friendship, knowing that if he steps in right now, she’ll resent him for it. Jessica needed to connect the dots on all on her own. This needed to happen on her own terms.

Jessica will want to feel like she’s in control of her emotions. He’ll give her that illusion.

When the show officially starts and Patsy’s voice comes over the loudspeaker in the lobby—God, and Jessica thinks _he’s_ self-absorbed—he tells her it’s time to go.

… 

They take a turn around Central Park, empty the entire Boathouse café on the lake, and admire the budding trees. Then they meander over to Patsy’s favorite coffee shop, this “Daily Grind” café, and stop at a Barnes & Noble along the way to pick up some newspapers and magazines.

Kilgrave and Jessica have been in a stakeout there since 3:30, nursing Americanos and feeding each other scones. They’re seated right in front of the window; he has Jessica check that they’re visible to the outside passerby.

At 3:58 p.m., Kilgrave gets a text that Patsy is on the move. He looks out the window, sees her all the way down the street. When Jessica spots her too, she goes deathly still. All his commands from before reactivate in her: no making a move or drawing any attention to herself or to them when she sees Patsy.

All she can do is stare straight ahead. 

He doesn’t bother reminding Jessica that there’s no way he’s using his powers to control this situation, and that he’s been with her all day so there’s no way he’s gotten involved. She knows this by now.

Patsy walks right past them to enter the coffee shop—she doesn’t look in the window or even check out her reflection. He hopes Jessica can’t hear him holding his breath. The _New York Times_ is covering his face, but he's let Jessica stay in the open, facing the counter. Her eyes are glassy.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy greets the barista, orders her drink. She hands over her money and her stupid little punch card, and steps to the side, even closer to them. But Patsy doesn’t look over, oh no. Instead, she fiddles with her phone as she waits the minute or two that it takes for the clumsy barista to make her drink.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Then Patsy’s name is called. She accepts her cup, thanks the barista and walks right past him and Jessica without knowing any better.

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy walks out the door and walks right past him and Jessica, _again._

_Jessica stares straight ahead._

Patsy walks out of Jessica’s life, _for the second time that day._

Jessica turns her cheek so he doesn’t see her face. No bother, he knows she’s holding back tears. For once, it wasn’t something that he did. But now is _not_ the time to remind her.

Instead, Kilgrave sets his paper down on the table with a flourish.

“I’ll be honest: if she spotted us, I was going to make her reveal everything she hates about you. You know, go on and on about how much better her quality of life has gotten since she doesn’t have to take care of her sister anymore; recount every time she’s ever been annoyed by something you’ve done or something you’ve said,” he informs Jessica. “That was my plan, in case you were wondering. My evil plan, as you’d probably say.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” Jessica manages to reply with the faintest wobble in her voice. 

They both know her heart’s not in it. He doesn’t even bother with a response.

… 

They eat takeout from Jessica’s favorite New York pizza place once they’ve boarded the private plane. Jessica folds her pizza and starts stuffing her face; Kilgrave sops up the grease from his slice with a napkin before carefully cutting his pizza with a fork and knife.

When they’re flying over the Atlantic, he offers her a pint of Ben and Jerry's or a bottle of Jack Daniels—he can guess which one she’ll pick, but he’s heard that both should be on hand when someone’s in mourning.


	4. Barcelona

The life seems to have gone out of Jessica. Her bright light, her bright pulsing light, has dimmed a little bit, in the aftermath of Perfect Pansy. It’s a bit obvious. She’s dejected. He can’t see any calculating behind her eyes. She’s picking fewer fights with him. She questions him less and less. She goes along with everything more and more. 

It’s a blessing and a curse, just like everything else in his life.

Jessica is saying less in general too, which would be a minor setback but that includes less disgusting digs coming out of her mouth, and that requires less commands on his part.

He’s finally weaning her off of his control. Soon she’ll be here because she wants to be, he can just tell. Usually he’s not a patient man—how could he be?—but he’s willing to wait it out. Because of Jessica. It will all be worth it in the end. Because of Jessica. 

It better fucking be a winning version of Past Jessica and Present Jessica, for Chrissake. That’s all he has to say. 

He better not lose all the fire and passion of Past Jessica—just Past Jessica’s anger and hatred towards him. No, he wants that fire and passion, coupled with the easygoing nature that Present Jessica has been coasting on since they set down on Madrid soil two days ago. That’s all he wants.

He’s not asking for too much now.

Come on, _Jessica._

…

Barcelona suits Jessica. She looks fantastic in wide-brimmed hats and aviators. And she seems more at ease here. All the day drinking probably helps.

He buys her a new wardrobe from all the little shops in El Born Barrio, the trendiest area of the city. For Barcelona, he favors Jessica in gauzy scarfs, long cotton dresses, flared skirts, lots and lots of light layers for tops, blouses, sweaters, button-downs.

There’s no need for ball gowns and elbow-length white gloves here like in Paris. To be honest, he’s glad it’s a step up from the beachwear in Crete.

His wardrobe matches hers. He’s not as casual as in Greece, but he does choose an aubergine canvas jacket as a concession. He picks out a scarf for himself, on whim. And aviators, of course. Ray Bans just like Jessica.

He even placates her by grabbing some dark-wash, flared bellbottom jeans and leather jackets as smooth as butter during one of the shopping trips. She picks out a pair of black leather boots. He wouldn’t go any lower than a four-inch heel, but still—he lets her pick out a pair of black leather boots. That's new.

…

Amazingly, Kilgrave hasn’t yet commented on Jessica’s drinking—which is even more now, as difficult as that may be to believe. She’s even had to ask him for alcohol, and he gave it to her simply because he knew how hard it must have been for his sweet, stubborn love to ask him for help.

Patsy’s the reason for her drinking, he surmises. In some way, that has always been the case.

Jessica hasn’t gotten very horny when drunk, not as often. Not pissed off either, no, not at all. Nothing like the all-out fuckfests of Crete, unfortunately. No, now it’s more melancholy, which makes things a little more difficult. He manages, though.

Now she mopes around and drinks and stares out windows and drinks and takes long baths and drinks in the tub. But she undresses in front of him to do that, all on her own, which is amazing. Even more remarkably, she doesn’t even seem to mind in the slightest. When he climbs in after her, she doesn’t say a thing.

So he’ll let her carry on, mostly because just once, he would like to be the one to hold Jessica’s hair back as she pukes. He wants to rub circles on her back, maneuver her chin off the toilet bowel, clean her face with a warm washcloth and carry her off to bed. He can’t wait to place two Advil and a bottle of water on her nightstand for when she wakes up. 

They say that’s what best friends and boyfriends do. That’s what Jessica has said Patsy used to do for her.

Once that happens, then he’ll curb it on the sangrias.

He gives it a week.

…

During one of the nicest days, Kilgrave and Jessica tour the Sagrada Familia basilica. They spend hours there together, wandering around on their own and having the curator take them on a special behind-the-scenes trip.

He takes as many photos of her as he does of the art, of the views. He can tell Jessica’s just as floored as he is by the architecture, the beauty and, most of all, the story. Good God, the _story._  

Construction of the Roman Catholic church began way back in 1882 and here they were, all these years later, and the damn thing is still being built. The damn thing will continue being built until it’s completed in 2030, or so they say.

And the brilliant architect, Antoni Gaudí, poor sod, had planned the whole thing to take several hundred years to build, with the way architecture and building and construction and all that was like in the early 20th century.

“My client is not in a hurry,” is what he’s supposed to have said. 

If the Sagrada Familia is actually completed in under 150 years, it’ll be considered a _miracle._

To be honest, it makes his head hurt a little just thinking about it.

“If that were me, if I were Gaudí, I’d have that damn basilica finished in a decade,” Kilgrave muses over tapas at a nearby joint. He spears a grilled prawn and chews thoughtfully.

“Just like a pharaoh,” Jessica drawls. After a moment, she snorts into her cider.

“What was that about?” he asks.

He pushes over the plate of rustic white bread rubbed with garlic and tomato and drizzled with oil over at Jessica. The bartender had told him it was a specialty—at least, he’s pretty sure that’s what he said; Kilgrave’s Spanish has been coming back to him on this trip. “Here, Jessica, try this, you’ll love it,” he says.

“Just like a pharaoh … minus the empire,” she repeats, after taking a bite. 

“You’re my empire,” he smoothly replies, sickeningly sweet. He reaches across the table and folds his hand over hers.

After a beat, he adds, “And besides, my slaves wouldn’t have to do anything by hand. No backbreaking work moving marble across the desert or hauling stones up thirty feet. Take _that,_ Egyptian pharaohs mummies.” 

…

This whole trip, he’s been just fascinated by Gaudí. He has to know everything about the famed architect. Tediously, since the man is dead, Kilgrave has to do his research the regular, boring, old-fashioned way by visiting museums and libraries and reading books and seeking out experts. 

He doesn’t know why he’s going through all this effort—usually he favors modern architecture, clean lines and spaces. There’s just something about this Gaudí genius with his big ideas, his grand vision and a similarly on-the-nose last name that makes him tick.

The mind on that man … what he would give to pick his brain! 

Kilgrave and Jessica visit and tour the best Gaudí architecture sites and buildings in the city. Jessica, of course, dutifully poses outside of each and every one of them while he takes her picture. 

One weekend, Kilgrave and Jessica stay over at the Gaudí House, located within the Park Güell. It’s a museum now and not even all the floors or rooms are open to the public, but he explores every inch of the building with Jessica. The architect had lived in the strange little house for nearly 20 years, and some of his belongings, like his bed and his couches, can be used in the house. 

Kilgrave should know. He and Jessica fuck in every room. They’ve been on every couch, every bed—especially Gaudí’s—and almost all the rugs. Since Gaudí, a staunch Catholic, never married and was only ever known to have been _merely attracted to_ one woman, Kilgrave’s sure that he’s takes the title as the man who’s had the most sex inside the Gaudí House. 

And Jessica is the woman.

…

Barcelona has an Arc de Triomf too, just like Paris.

He gets a picture of Jessica standing under it, just like Paris.

They kiss under the arch and then again on top of the structure, just like Paris.

He takes panoramic pictures of the whole view of the city with Jessica in the middle, just like Paris.

…

They’re eating gelato and strolling around Ramblas when Kilgrave feels someone padding his bum. He looks over at Jessica, pleased as punch, and realizes she’s walking too far away. 

He looks to the other side and sees a man with his hand on his arse.

“What the fuck?” he exclaims.

The guy starts to run. “Jessica, get him,” Kilgrave calmly commands, patting his pockets to see with else this guy took. Nothing. What an amateur. 

Jessica immediately drops her ice cream and tackles the poor sod. She’s on top of him in an instant.

Kilgrave watches her, his little lioness taking out her prey. Grinning, he strolls over to where they’re laying.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Kilgrave asks, nudging the guy’s leg. “For a pickpocket, you sure have rotten luck. Jessica, get up and hand me my phone.”

Jessica does just that.

Kilgrave looks around and sees they’ve attracted a crowd. “No one takes a fucking video or photo. Delete any that you’ve taken. Everyone, stuff your phones in your mouth,” he hisses.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a few people fiddle with their phone before they all, indeed, stuff the devices in their mouth.

His attention goes back to the wannabe burglar. “Get up,” he tells him. “Up you go, on your feet.”

As he watches the stunned man stumble, Kilgrave asks, “Jessica, what do you think? He stole my phone. Gandhi said an eye for an eye but I bet this man doesn’t even have a cell phone I’d want.”

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” Jessica answered.

 _She’s gotten too comfortable,_ he thinks. Of course she chooses _now_ to demonstrate that, of all times. So inconvenient.

“Jessica, do to this man what you would do if he tried to steal _your_ phone and I wasn’t here,” he replies, hearing the edge in his voice. 

With that, Kilgrave steps back, his hands in his pockets. He can’t _wait_ to see what will happen. 

Jessica walks over the guy, winds up, and slaps him so hard across the face that he falls down like a sack of shit. She bends down, grabs him by the collar, lifts his face up and inspects the loser. He’s woozy, but still conscious.

Jessica picks him up, throws him over her shoulder, and marches down the street. 

Kilgrave’s never been so proud. 

He turns to all the people, twenty or thirty of them standing around like turkeys in the rain with their cell phones in their mouths. “As soon as I get to the next block, everyone spit your phones out and congratulate each other for being filmed as part of a funny prank reality show. The program will air next Tuesday. You’ve forgotten what my face and my woman’s face looks like.”

Then he picks up speed, following Jessica around the block.

“Where are you taking him, Jessica? Let me know,” he calls out, walking behind her.

“Police. Pretty sure this isn’t the first time he’s done this. He needs to pay,” she replies, not even looking over her shoulder.

“Such a hero,” he retorts, rolling his eyes. He lets her continue—the police station is nearby anyway. They passed it on their way from the gelato stand.

Speaking of which, he still has his cup, but poor Jessica left her mango cone behind at the scene of the crime. He’ll treat her to a new one after she’s finished living out her vigilante fantasy. 

…

It’s an unseasonably warm week. They lie out on the beach and soak up some sun during the day, and spend the nights in the hot tubs. Jessica sure can fill out a bikini. She’s not moping when she spreads out on the towels or lounge chairs or hammocks and sleeps and sleeps and sleeps during her siestas.

They’ve taken a lot of siestas together. It’s quite nice falling asleep next to Jessica in the daylight. 

He’s thought of a million things to tell her and yet, he’s been enjoying the stillness in her face. Her eyes look less panicky, her lips aren’t always pressed together, and he’s noticed that she’s stopped searching for an exit every time they step into a room. It’s quite nice. He doesn't want to break it.

Hours would pass and he wouldn’t have told her to do anything. She’s not asking him personal questions, or any questions, which might have been nice, to be the one responding. He’s never the one responding. But she's not picking fights with him. She's not forcing his hand. They're just enjoying each other's company, silently. He's okay with that.

Maybe it’s the weather. The beach. The sun. The endless sky. Maybe they should go to some island in the Caribbean. Maybe Ibizia would be fun.

Maybe Jessica has somewhere warm she’d like to go. He’ll have to _ask._

… 

Jessica goes and gives herself bloody _alcohol poisoning_ on a Tuesday night. 

Kilgrave finds her passed out under the covers—he thought she was just asleep at first. He didn’t think anything of it as he strolled out of the bathroom from his shower and slipped into his silk boxers.

It isn’t until he climbs into bed and goes to kiss her forehead that he realizes she’s not breathing. 

His first thought is to try and remember what demands he gave her. He always has to tell her not to kill herself or kill him, or hurt herself or himself on purpose. He did that the last time, right? 

Bitch must have found a loophole. 

He finds a faint pulse—she’s still alive. He slaps her around a bit while yelling for the frightened housekeeper to call a doctor. He checks her eyes; her pupils don’t respond. Her face is as sweaty as if he was straddling her for a much more pleasurable reason. He counts twelve breaths in sixty seconds.

Only then does Kilgrave feel fear, true fear. He hasn’t experienced that in a very, very, very long time. 

Of course Jessica went and got herself unconscious so his commands won’t work on her; otherwise he could have saved her life. He could have forced her to wake, forced her to breath, forced her to crawl into the bathroom and rouse herself under the warm shower spray.

But no, he has to do all that himself, cradling her cold, clammy body the whole time.

She was wearing his favorite purple negligee—now he can’t stand the sight of it.

After for-fucking-ever, the doctor finally arrives. Kilgrave orders him to do everything he can to save this woman, as fast as he can, whatever it takes. The doctor curtly nods and sets to work on Jessica. Kilgrave can barely watch him stick that thing down his pet’s throat. 

He leaves to change out of his soaked drawers, and he slips into wool trousers and a cashmere sweater.

Christ, he knew that she’d been drinking more heavily than normal, but he had attributed that to her typical mourning over Patsy. And he’d said he’d give it a week!

All Jessica had to drink at dinner a mere couple of hours ago was her usual bottle and a half of wine. With her body’s extraordinary capabilities and superhero metabolism, he’s never really questioned her about her heavy drinking. She never seemed excessively drunk after their meals—especially not their last one. 

There is a chance that she didn’t do this on purpose. They’d been getting on so well before this whole thing. But he’s always been an optimistic bugger, hasn’t he?

He purposefully knocks over a vase, then a sculpture, then another vase, while the housekeeper scrambles around the villa desperately searching for the alcohol Jessica must have drank. She checks Jessica's nightstand, her dresser, his dresser, the wardrobe room and comes up empty. She even looks under the bed. Nothing in the kitchen or the pantry. Living room, movie room, office, dining room.

All clear.

Only then does Kilgrave allow himself to believe that this was just a mistake. Jessica didn’t want to leave him. Jessica didn’t want to kill herself. This was just her being stupid. She wasn’t thinking or paying attention to what she was doing, what she was really doing. She let the alcohol get the better of her. See, this is why she needs him to look out for her! He’s doing it for her own good!

The bumbling housekeeper brings him into the laundry room, her hands trembling. She found six empty bottles of cava in the wash machine. He recognizes the bottles; he’d taken a box of cava home after spending the afternoon at a vineyard with Jessica the other day. They’d had a lovely time together tasting the fares and fucking on a blanket spread out between the rows of grapes.

After showing him the findings, the housekeeper takes a razor blade out of her apron pocket and brings it to her neck. It takes Kilgrave a second to remember the failsafe he gave her: slowly slit her throat if Jessica tries to harm him or herself.

Well, it’s clear now what the housekeeper thinks has happened.

Enraged, Kilgrave smashes each and every one of the bottles against the wall before he tells the housekeeper to stop, forget about the thing with the razor blade. She needs to pick up the shards now instead.

Once he’s finished with that mess, he sprints up the stairs to check on his darling. The doctor has got Jessica moving her head, mumbling incoherently, breathing normally—still not responding to questions or commands, though. Kilgrave tried.

He hates feeling so … powerless. In this moment, in this situation, he’s just as powerless as any other poor sod on the planet. How do people feel like this _all the time?_  What's the point of having this power if he can't save Jessica's life with it?

The doctor moves her to the bed. Kilgrave notes that her body temperature is closer to humanlike rather than a corpse.

The doctor stays by her side and continues to treat her while Kilgrave paces around the room for God knows how long. The sun’s starting to rise when the doctor deems his work finished and leaves, giving Kilgrave a list of instructions he can barely hear over the thumping of his own heart.

Kilgrave gazes down at Jessica Jones. She still looks just like she’s asleep. It makes for such a peaceful scene.

Maybe she just didn’t know her limits. She drank a lot, yes, but not enough to kill herself on purpose.

But … she has super strength and insane jumping capabilities. Jessica Jones knows exactly what her body’s limits are.

Kilgrave doesn't know what to believe. The only person who could settle the question is conked out right in front of him. He would kill her, except that’s so obviously what she wants. Or doesn't want.

Doesn't matter, he thinks to himself. Let her sleep. Let her think she’s dead. Let her _dream_ it. He needs to plan what will happen when Jessica Jones finally awakes.

Because Kilgrave will be there when Jessica Jones finally awakes. Oh yes, he will.

 


	5. London

Jessica Jones opens her eyes when they’re an hour away from London.

“Did you mean to bloody kill yourself? Answer this question, and all future questions,” is the first thing she hears.

Kilgrave’s made sure of it.

She coughs, rasps a little—obviously trying to respond when her body’s not letting her do that.

A ping of sympathy comes out of nowhere and zaps Kilgrave into action. He holds out a glass of water with a bendy straw. “Drink this. Answer when you can.”

Her eyes show no fear, no remorse, no emotion, no reaction. She takes a sip from the straw and coughs some more.

Kilgrave is literally on the edge of his seat. 

“No,” she finally croaks, and he catches himself before slumping backwards with relief. 

“Do you want to die?”

She pauses, as long as she ever has. “Sometimes.”

He’s white-knuckled, holding onto the armchair. He forces himself to relax.

“Did you mean to do this to yourself on purpose? Explain.” 

“I … I just wanted to block everything out. I didn’t mean for all of this,” she trails off, waving her hand.

“What do you mean, block everything out?”

Her voice is as hoarse as a dying man when she replies, “You. Trish. Me. Sometimes I feel like all I can do is think and my mind never has anything good to think about.”

“What do you mean, you never have anything good to think about? We’ve been on a bloody tour of the world for the past month and a half! We were supposed to celebrate our four-month anniversary next week!”

His voice breaks, embarrassingly, in the last bit. Not hard to figure out why: Kilgrave honestly has no idea where all of this is coming from. 

She tries to explain but her voice goes out.

“Never mind,” he quietly tells her. “Finish the water and go back to sleep. We’ll continue this conversation once we’ve landed.”

That gets a reaction out of her. Jessica’s eyebrows furrow in question as she takes her mandatory sips.

“Sweet dreams, Jessica,” is all he says, watching her head hit the pillow.

… 

Jessica wakes up again just as they’re landing.

“Where am I?” she woozily asks.

Kilgrave ignores her, continues his conversation with one of the flight attendants.

“Hey!” she manages to say, a little louder.

He glances over his shoulder. “London. Now do shut up.”

…

She’s mad, he can tell, but that’s nothing compared to how he feels.

For starters, he still hasn’t gotten over how immediately _terrified_ he felt when he first discovered her unconscious body. He’s never, ever felt that way before—not since he was a boy, and maybe not even really then.

This is definitely the first time he’s felt scared about _someone else._

And oh, how this Jessica Jones-induced fear almost paralyzed him—and would have knocked him over and kept him on his knees, if he hadn’t felt so simultaneously pissed off at her. He was so angry and annoyed at her almost dying that he had no choice but to do everything in his power to keep her alive. Continue to keep her alive.

Her response on the plane that she didn’t try to commit suicide by way of 36,000-euros worth of sparkling wine helped a teensy, tiny bit, he begrudgingly acknowledged.

Then again, having Jessica place him on the same level as Formerly Saint Patsy the Deserter was like a superhero-powered punch to the dick.

Either way: almost losing her only made him want her more. The fact that Jessica Jones had survived a life-or-death situation was one of the worst things she could have possibly done, if she truly hates him as much as she says she does.

How to you punish someone who _sometimes_ wants to die? How do you make someone pay for their actions when they _sometimes_ have a death wish. 

The obvious solution is that he’ll keep Jessica from feeling like she wanted to die. He has a sneaking suspicion that he would be rather good at it. He wonders if it will be boring or annoying to repeat, over and over again, for as long as it takes, “You don’t want to die, Jessica Jones.”

What’s that stupid, trite cliché again? Oh right. _Kill them with kindness._

Yes, that was it. After making her want to live, Kilgrave was going to switch to killing Jessica Jones—figuratively—with kindness. And probably lots of oral sex also.

Because if he kills her, then he’d only be giving her exactly what she wants. If he tortures her, then she’ll really want to die. He can’t have that. Jessica has to live. Jessica has to live with him.

Jessica has to _want_ to live with him. 

…

But this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Getting Jessica Jones to want to be with him was always the end goal, he surmises, he can see that now—but no, no, no, no, _no_ , this isn’t _right._

Really, the one time—the _one time_ —Kilgrave actually tries to plan something out and go on all these amazing trips with Jessica so she will fall in love with him of her own accord and they can just go ahead and fastforward to the end of _Pride and bloody Prejudice_ already and what happens? What happens to him? She goes and does _this._

 _This_ being almost dying of alcohol poisoning because Jessica, surprisingly, didn’t care if she died and Kilgrave, even more surprisingly, actually did care.

And the second that happened, the moment Jessica forced his hand, Kilgrave was placed in a position where he was powerless, vulnerable and unable to control anything he wanted. The last time he was that hopelessly tied down, so disgustingly weak, must have been in the very seconds before he got his powers.

That, mind you, was so many years ago … and yet right now he’s still the boy with the shaved head being forcibly held down on the table while his father poked and prodded him with nine-inch needles. He promised himself he’d never feel that way again, once upon a time.

Wouldn’t you know it: now he’s circling back to the terrors and sweats and gasps for air. All because of Jessica bloody Jones. All because of stupid planning.

It’s almost enough to make Kilgrave go back to never making plans ever again.

But there’s a part that irks him. It’s gotten under his skin. He has to go through with everything now just because he needs to prove he can be a man with a plan, and that plan is Jessica Jones. Just like before, only better.

… 

He gets Jessica to sleep until they arrive at his sprawling country house in Highgate. Poor little kitten needs her rest. He desperately wishes he could sleep too—he hasn’t slept a minute since he found her. In fact, he’s barely even closed his eyes since then.

It definitely wasn’t the best all-nighter he’d ever pulled.

But Kilgrave knows he needs to wait until they’re settled before he can relax and rest easy.

The pilots did such a good job cleaning and clearing the house. There’s even flowers on the living room table—that was a nice touch, from the flight attendants. He’s sure there’s much more to explore, but all he does is drag Jessica to the master suite. 

“Now you’re going to stand in the corner and stare at the wall and you’re not to move a muscle. All you’re going to do is stand still and be silent while you think about what you’ve done and how that’s affected me. And you won’t stop until I tell you,” he wearily orders her while undressing for bed.

Immediately, she walks over to the corner and silently stares at the baroque wallpaper two inches away from her nose.

Kilgrave falls asleep about three minutes later. 

…

“Where are we?” is the first thing Jessica asks once he comes out of the shower and tells her to just relax already.

“My estate in Highgate. Just outside of London.”

“ _Your_ estate?” she asks, going over and sitting on the bed.

He notes that she chose the side he didn’t sleep on.

Instead, he goes with saying, “Really? _That’s_ what you focus on? Not where in the world is Jessica Jones? Very—”

“Yes,” she replies.

What? Oh, right. He forgot he told her on the plane to answer all future questions. Apparently that included rhetorical ones.

“Forget the thing I said about the questions,” he sighs, opening his sock drawer. “Yes, we are at _my_ estate. _Mine._ I bought it. With legal tender, I might add. I do that sometimes, you know—buy things. Scones, vests, blankets … 19 th century country homes. I even got a proper lawyer for the last one! I pay him and everything too.”

“Hmmph.”

He looks over his shoulder at her. “Anyway, is that how we talk to the person who saved your life last night? Hmm?” he prods.

She doesn’t respond.

“Well, what did you come up with during your hours of reflection? Do tell me. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“I drank six bottles of wine. I didn’t really care what happened after that, but obviously you did,” she told him.

“Of course I did,” he chided. “And what did it do to me?” 

Jessica Jones stared him dead in the eyes as she told him, “It made you feel like you didn’t have any control.”

He’s going to KILL her. 

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s right in front of her. “Stop,” he commands as soon as he detects any movement.

She freezes. He’s so enraged he barely notices.

“Control?” he shouts. “This isn’t about any bloody control. This is about basic human decency and care, you stupid bitch.”

Kill her WITH LOVE, he reminds himself. Kill her WITH KINDNESS.

Kilgrave takes a breath. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry about the ‘stupid bitch’ part,” he murmurs, tracing her jawline. “As you can see, I _lost control._ I’m quite capable of doing that even when you’re not putting your life in danger, you know.”

He sighs. This isn’t coming out right. He’s just so … “Jessica, you’re right, I didn’t have any control last night—but you did, and look what you did with it. You could have killed yourself. Don’t you see that? Don’t you get that?”

After he finishes, Kilgrave closes his eyes and takes another breath. In his head, he counts to ten.

“Now you listen to me, Jessica Jones,” he starts. “You listen to me. You’re _sick_ if you think that the reason I was so upset when I found your comatose body and your six empty bottles of cava is because, as you put it, _I lost control._ How can you _think_ like that? What kind of person _does_ that, hmm?”

He waits a moment, lets it stick in.

“Do you really have such … such low self-worth, that you automatically assume that’s the reason why I was so traumatized? Really, Jessica. Really? That’s awful." 

Gazing into her eyes, he murmurs, “I was so traumatized because the _love of my life_ was so knocked out she only managed to take 12 breaths in a minute! I know—I counted.”

Kilgrave places a finger delicately on her neck. “I felt for your pulse with my fingers thinking I wouldn’t feel a thing. And I almost didn’t.”

Then he brings his mouth right over hers, like he’s going to kiss her. “I put my face over your mouth to check for your breathing. I felt swooshes of air so thin and soft and quick on my cheek that I thought I’d imagined it,” he exhales.

“I counted in my head to check your breaths. I got lost in the eternities between each one. I don’t even want to think about counting one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi for a very long time,” he added, backing away from her.

“But I would, for you. I’d do it for you, like I always have. I did it for you. I don’t mean that in an accusatory way—it was worth it, because it was you. Because it could help save your life. Because it did help save your life. That’s why I did what I did. How can you not feel that way about yourself, Jessica? Never mind me. God knows I don’t even want to know what you’d do if the situation had been reversed—I’m not a fool. That’s not important right now. What’s important is that I don’t want you to live for me. I want you to live for you.” 

Kilgrave turns around and picks up the socks he’d dropped in the drawer.

He continues, “And that’s why I’m going to help you. I’m going to take care of you, Jessica Jones. Someone has to, right? And as you just so brilliantly demonstrated not even 24 hours ago, you can’t be responsible for yourself right now. So I’m going to do it for you.”

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed now, putting on his socks.

“I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you back again, Jessica. I’m going to make things right. Think about it. With me, I’m going to give you that type of professional help would have cost a pretty penny for an unemployed college dropout with no health insurance. You’re really going to be getting the most bang for your buck, so to speak, by letting me take care of you.”

He pats the space next to him. “Take a seat, Jessica.”

When she’s sitting next to him, Kilgrave puts his hand on her knee. “Look at it this way, darling. You’ll have no choice but to quit cold turkey. No more alcohol for you. You’re not going to take a sip. You’re not even going to _notice_ how _badly_ you want to take a sip. I simply won’t let you. I won’t let that happen. And that’s just for your alcoholism.”

Jessica mutely stares at him.

“That’s right,” he tells her. “From now on, what I’m going to be doing for you will be cheaper than stolen Prozac. Automatic anti-depressants from now on. Don’t think about killing yourself, or how much better it would be for everyone if you died, because that’s not true. That’s not how you’re going to think from here on out. You know better now. Right?”

“I know better now,” she tells him. 

“Right. Now you’re going to savor every moment, every experience, every conversation, every meal, every trip, every shopping expedition, every time you make love, every time you realize that I love you—that someone on this big blue marble of a planet really, truly loves you. And you’re going to love yourself, Jessica Jones. You’re going to love everything. This is your _life._ You get a second chance at life. Do you know how rare that is? You don’t get to waste it, Jessica. I’m not going to let you waste it.”

Now they’re hugging, his arms are thrown around her shoulders and his hands, his hands are smushed in her hair, clinging to her waist, rubbing her back, stroking her neck, cradling her face. He cups the back of her neck and brings her face against his chest, comforting her like a child.

“Notice how I didn’t make you love me, hmmm?” he murmurs into her hair.

…

Throughout the rest of the day, Kilgrave never lets Jessica stray far from his side.

She can’t be trusted. She hasn’t earned it.

They do everything together except for when she’s in the bathroom—then she has to leave the door open when she pees or showers.

Jessica cries in the shower until he tells her to stop.

…

“Why are you doing this?” she asks him once she’s dressed.

They had picked out a dark, almost black-purple cashmere sweater and soft woolen trousers as cozy as pajamas for Jessica. He’s wearing a similar outfit himself—he’s really trying to make a go of this whole solidarity thing.

“I thought we went over this already, Jessica,” he sighs.

Nice touch, in his opinion, to add the “I thought” part to it.

“Yeah but … why me?”

“Feeling philosophical, are we?” he chuckled. “Well … because you’re you. And because I’m me. Of course I’m going to help you. I’d be a monster if I didn’t.”

“You are a monster,” she tries to diagnose. She’s so cold and clinical sometimes, it’s really unnerving. It’s amazing how much her dark eyes are capable of conveying.

“Monsters typically don’t save lives,” he sniffs, arching an eyebrow at that for extra emphasis. Name-calling doesn’t suit her.

“You typically don’t either, is what I’m getting at. I’ve seen it firsthand. All lives are disposable to you in some way or another. Except for mine, it seems.”

“Yes, Jessica, because you’re special,” he patiently explains. “Because we’re both special.”

“Then why don’t you go after the Hulk? He’s _special_ ” she sneers.

“I prefer purple,” he archly replies, giving her sweater an obvious once-over.

Jessica ignores it. “He’s already wearing purple pants,” she retorts instead, insolent as a child. 

She’s almost spitting fire now, it’s written all over her face, and steam will be radiating off her head any second now. Beautiful. He can truly say she looks more alive than she has in the last 24 hours. That’s the only reason why he hasn’t told her to cheer up.

“Jessica,” Kilgrave sighs. He was never any good at talking to children even when he was a child, and he’s never had any problems with women until Jessica. He’s really in the shit now.

“But the pants wouldn’t be enough for you, would it? Nothing’s enough for you, the man who has everything. You’d just make him purple. And you’d make him _love_ pasta amatriciana and you’d make him jump higher than any human and you’d make him follow you around, because that’s what you do,” she continues. 

He can’t take it anymore. “Follow me around? Like you _followed me around_ to the Eiffel Tower on Valentine’s Day? Like you _followed me around_ to Crete so you could see the precious things you read about in books with your daddy?”

For once in her life, Jessica Jones doesn’t have anything to say.

Smugly, he adds, “Not that this matters, but I don’t even know if I could do any of that with the Hulk and I don’t care enough to want to get close enough to try. And anyway, that’s enough of that. Cheer up, Jessica. It’s time for dinner.”

…

They eat in the formal dining room. He does most of the talking, telling her about the art he’s brought in, the renovations he’s had made to the house to restore its Victorian splendor, the work it took to make the garden look presentable. Some of the designs were lifted straight from Versailles.

Jessica mostly slurps her curry. 

It’s her throat, he decides. Noticeably swollen, it must be inflamed from last night, with the doctor. No wonder she’s only spoken so little today, when he’s let her.

Shame that whenever she did open that ripe strawberry of a mouth, it was to question every single thing he’s done in the past 24 hours, most of all saving her goddamn life.

He concludes he’ll go down on Jessica later tonight, instead of the other way around.

She doesn’t question _that_.

…

The next day, 48 hours after the _incident_ , as Kilgrave’s taken to thinking of it, is a quiet, cozy affair.

They make plans. They schedule activities. That’s what happens in rehab, right? Activities. Plan out your whole day so you concentrate on group therapy and beading and puzzles and whatever else the hell people do in rehab so you’re not jonesing for a fix.

Jessica _Jones_ ing for a fix, in this case.

Jessica laughs at that when he tells her.

“If you think I have an addiction, I’d love to hear what you think you have,” she tells him once she’s stopped sniggering.

“I think I have the ability to just have one glass of wine,” he snaps. “Shut up.”

Kilgrave can only do so much talking; he’s a man of action, always has been. Jessica isn’t much of a talker either and that suits him just fine, always has. They don’t talk, they do.

Good thing they’re enclosed in a secluded country estate.

They start off in the cinema in the basement—Jessica’s never even heard of Monty Python, let alone watched the television programs or movies or specials. No wonder she’s such a sourpuss sometimes.

After lunch, they take books off shelves and read them out loud and leave them on various end tables and sofas and chairs for one of the flight attendants to put back in their place.

There are lots of things to do indoors, away from all the people, the temptation, the noise and the distractions. It’s just him and Jessica. Him trying to help out Jessica.

Inspired by the British countryside and the weather, Kilgrave reads _Jane Eyre_ and _Wuthering Heights_ out loud to Jessica. Sometimes they act out the most romantic scenes together—of course Jessica is the Jane to his Mr. Rochester, the Catherine to his Heathcliffe.

God bless the Brontë sisters …

…

Kilgrave’s a little perturbed to be back home. Home as in his mother country, not … that vile place where he kind of grew up with his parents.

He hasn’t been back on this Godforsaken island in about two years. Funny how it was his first immediate destination once he thought about taking Jessica Jones the hell out of Barcelona.

New York would have been too risky. Plus, New York was Patsy’s city, he begrudgingly admitted. Even if they were at new places Jessica had never been to with Patsy, even if they visited neighborhoods and did things she never did with that foolish girl, the mere fact that Pathetic Patsy was on that same island would be too much.

 _England it_ is, he had decided. He’d been there enough, knew where to go, had a place to stay in the country where they could live their lives away from the hustle and bustle and temptation of Barcelona and New York, the two places where they’d been before Jessica let a little too loose. Good ole England.

Funny how it all worked out.

But it’s good to be back—with Jessica. It’s a whole new country with her, and a whole new way of life for them.

He met Jessica in her country. It’s only fair they spend some time in his country.

… 

He’s not used to treating Jessica like she might break. He knows she can’t, physically. Not unless she fights the Hulk and maybe not even then.

But he’s never considered her mind breaking, or her heart, or her spirit. Why would he ever need to concern himself with those petty things? 

Of course, now he does, constantly. That’s all he can think about.

He’s consumed by Jessica. She has no idea—but everything he does, he does for her. That’s so new for him. She’d never appreciate it.

Usually, everything he does is for him. That’s just how he had to live since his parents saw it fit to torture him all in the name of science and accidentally stumbled upon inventing this blessing of a curse. He’s had to compel people to take care of him from a very young age. He can’t even take care of himself without people to help him and yet, well, now he’s the one taking care of Jessica. He’s no wet nurse but he thinks he’s managing just fine. So far. 

He finds himself following Jessica around expectantly, his hands behind his back, eagerly awaiting whatever she’s going to say or do next. When he enters a room, he leans against the doorway at first, and then eases his way in, so as to not startle her like a wild animal.

It’s a very weird turn in their relationship but he feels like their connection is stronger for it. He’s her father, her lover, her brother, her friend. He’s her caretaker in and out of bed. Jessica Jones leans on him for support, needs him to be there for her—he expects the last time she felt that way, the last time she had such a circle of trust, was when she had her mum, and her dad, and her brother. A family.

He did always like that they were both orphans, both abandoned by their families. Jessica’s second family, her Trish, just abandoned her again; of course Jessica was going to be reeling from that. Of course she was going to act out.

He should have seen it coming.

…

One late night, as he’s spooning her under the covers, Kilgrave casually mentions that he could have Trish killed, if that would make Jessica feel better. Would she want him to do that for her?

Her spine stiffens as soon as he finishes. Suddenly she’s all harsh angles, knees and elbows, nothing like the soft, wielding, accommodating figure as before.

“No,” she whispers, and turns so she can look him in the eyes. “Please, don’t.”

“Are you sure? Haven’t you ever heard of exercising your demons and all that?” he coos, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t you think that would help?”

She turns around soon afterwards, so they’re back to spooning. Kilgrave buries his head into her mess of hair and breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, breathes out, counts to ten, opens his mouth.

“Answer me, Jessica.”

“I know it wouldn’t,” she softly replies.

“If you say so.”

… 

They’ve settled into a routine that doesn’t feel like a routine. Breakfast on the indoor/outdoor porch in the morning. Lunch in the casual dining room. Dinner in the formal dining room, with the statues of Greek gods and portraits of somebody’s ancestors. 

Between those meals, they take tea in the garden if it’s nice outside or in the greenhouse if not. God, how he missed having proper tea, he hasn’t even had time to do that in forever.

Jessica, as it turns out, has never had clotted cream before—she loves it. She eats it by the spoonful, and she looks so good doing so. The first tea, she ate the entire little dish of it and licked the spoon clean.

The second tea, he orders her a little dish of her own, to eat.

The sixth tea, he decides it’s not adorable anymore.

He doesn’t make her jump. He could have, but he didn’t. Instead, he just has the flight attendant forgo clotted cream all together the next tea.

Jessica doesn’t ask why. 

…

He makes her jump a few days into their stay at Highgate.

“Just leave me alone. Why are you still here? Aren’t you tired of me? Aren’t you sick of having to put up with me? You could just move on and leave me alone and life would be so much easier for the both of us!” she screams in the middle of a particularly nasty spat.

It all started when he had the audacity to step in the shower with his lover. He’d only wanted to celebrate that she’d finally stopped crying in there without him having to control her.  

“Jessica, darling, listen to yourself. You don’t know what you’re saying,” he calmly replies, hands out like he’s approaching a wild animal. 

_This is what he gets for thinking that she was finally okay enough that he could stop telling her to be happy._

“No, I don’t,” she agrees, and the fight goes out of her, just like that. He reaches for the shampoo bottle and carries on with doing exactly what he imagined doing all week, waiting for this moment.

They’ve just started tucking into their Sunday roast that evening when Jessica randomly bursts out, “I may not know what I’m saying when I tell you I don’t know why you don’t just let me go!” and bursts into tears. 

After he recovers from the shock, Kilgrave sets his fork down.

“Of course I’m not going to let you go, Jessica. It’s only been a couple days since you almost _died_ from alcohol poisoning; of you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself. This little spat is just proving it! 

“Little spat?! Don’t you get how twisted that is? How fucked up all of this is?”

“Yes I do, that’s why I’m trying to take care of you,” he points out.

“I don’t want you to take care of me! You don’t need to do that! No one asked you to—there’s no one single fucking person making you do that!”

With that last outburst, Jessica stands up and throws her water glass at the wall. It breaks into a million pieces and before the water even starts dripping all the way down the burgundy wallpaper, the airplane pilots and flight attendants come rushing in with razor blades pressed against their throats. 

After a second, Jessica recovers and points at him. “What? What the fuck is this? What did you make them do?” she exasperatedly cries out.

“Enough with the razor blades. Leave,” Kilgrave orders the silly help, not even sparing them a glance.

Slowly rising from his chair, his eyes never leave Jessica’s face as he adds, “You’re the one who made them start cutting their throats. You just had to go and do something silly that could potentially endanger the two of us, didn’t you?" 

“That’s not fair!”

“I thought you of all people would know that life’s not fair,” he shoots back. “And I set that up for your own good. Everything I do is for your own good. You have no idea.”

“Bullshit. Everything you do is just for you and you know it.” 

“If that were true, you’d be dead,” he patiently reminds her.

“I wish I were! You didn’t need to save me! I wish you hadn’t! I wouldn’t have gotten into that position in the first place if I hadn’t met you!”

Well, now, that just _hurts._

“You mean, you wouldn’t have been in a million-Euro penthouse in Barcelona because of me? You wouldn’t have had dinner from the top of the Eiffel Tower because of me? You wouldn’t have the finest cuisine from every country, the best clothes from the best shops, the travel experiences and flying around the world and doing things you’d never been able to do with your dead-end friends and no career and tiny savings and Salvation Army wardrobe?” Kilgrave explodes, and he’s in front of Jessica in a flash. She can’t hurt him.

He continues, “You’re not in a position to get to choose, Jessica, because you did once and you chose wrong. You almost killed yourself! You’re the delusional one if you can’t see it. I’m going to make you see it, I’m going to make you get better and I’m going to make you realize just how special you are, and how right we are together, because you’re in no state to do that right now. And you’re lucky that I’m willing to do all of that.”

“I don’t want you to do any of that! You don’t need to! You, you can just walk away and leave me alone and then you won’t have to fight me so hard!”

“You’re the only one I let fight with me, darling. It’s only you. And _you_ don’t have to fight me so hard. That’s an order,” he tells her. “Now shut up and sit back down.”

Jessica slinks into her chair and doesn’t say a word.

“Enjoy this nice British meal I’ve arranged to welcome you to my country,” he tells her. “Don’t you dare think about anything else.”

Jessica spears a carrot with her fork.

She jumps while Kilgrave alone eats the pudding.

…

Kilgrave can’t fall asleep that night.

Jessica can, of course—he’s made sure of it. She’s peacefully dozing off next to him, a soft, warm presence in the coldness of the night. She looks so peaceful—she always does when she sleeps. It’s usually such a calming sight for him, but not tonight.

Oh no, not tonight. 

He keeps turning something over and over in his head and he just can’t make it stop. Really, he has to admit, it’s kind of funny that he could make Jessica, and literally everyone else on the planet, stop thinking about their problems, but he can’t do that with himself. Because of course he can’t. No. That would be way too easy.

His problem is: what if Jessica Jones were right?

He's under no obligation to continue to care for her. She said so herself. After all, he has her blessing, not that he needs it. And he’s certainly never felt this compulsion, this aching _need,_ to help someone other than himself. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know.

So there’s that. And then there’s the other brilliant point Jessica had to go and make: “You could just move on and leave me alone and life would be so much easier for the both of us.”

Every time he thinks of it, he hears Jessica screeching that. Nails on chalkboard, literally, every time he goes back to that. “You could just move on and leave me alone and life would be so much easier for the both of us.”

She’s right. He hates to admit it, especially in this case, but she’s _right._

Isn’t that just awful?

Because in the past, he’s walked away from bigger messes. He can say that about himself. Kilgrave’s been doing that for years all across the world and he’s never given it a second thought until now. Until Jessica. 

He’s had to change his life too, for Jessica. She doesn’t quite realize this and he wonders why he never thought about it either until now. He almost wants to wake her up and say, _Hey, you’re not the only one_. He’s had to be stuck inside with her, he’s had to stay in this one spot with her. This stationary, sedentary lifestyle isn’t for him as much as it isn’t for her.

He could leave it. He could leave her. He could go back to the jet setting and the fancy nightclubs and the best restaurants and the shopping trips and the girls—God, the girls, all beautiful and simple in their own collectively special ways. That was his life, pre-Jessica.

It was a good life. An easy life. No troubles whatsoever.

All he’d have to do is wake Jessica up and make her get out of there.

So why hasn’t he?

After all, that’s what _she_ wants him to do. That’s what she _wants_ him to do.

So he’s not going to do it, he decides. 

It was cabin fever. 100 percent cabin fever.

Being cooped up wasn’t good for the two of them, not when they’re used to going out and doing something. Of course people who’ve traveled to four different countries in the past two months would have a little bit of a hard transition into just staying put on one five-acre estate in the British countryside. Of course tensions would rise and tempers would get a little hot. No wonder they both went a little crazy and started going at each other’s throats. 

In hindsight, it’s all very obvious.

Honestly, they’d both be fine if they never saw another puzzle again for a very long time. And that’s _okay._

… 

The next day, they go on a little day trip. Kilgrave barely lets go of her.

They start off small. Hiking in Hampstead Heath. Trips to the café for a latte and a scone. Walks into town. Picking up new books at the bookstore. 

One balmy afternoon, they have a picnic lunch by a lake and spend hours feeding the ducks their leftover baguettes and crumpets. As a guy who’s used to walking into a room and making every woman want to be with him, Kilgrave had a lot of fun making quacking noises with Jessica at all the ducks. 

He brings Jessica into a Tesco. Together they pour over the Cadbury products and Mars bars and other quintessentially British products he hadn’t quite realized he liked enough to miss or want to introduce to someone.

It’s all so wonderful, having someone to share things that are important to you.

…

Things are a little better now. The fresh air and turns about the town honestly seem to be helping, which is quite possibly the most British thing Kilgrave has ever said. 

Love is turning him into a walking, talking cliché.

He realizes that now.

They’re loosening up. For starters, Jessica doesn’t act as over-the-top dramatic as she usually does, and she’s questioning less and less—always a pleasure. She’s quieter but that’s a good thing too; it’s a peaceful quiet, one that can be enjoyed with a special someone and not be awkward.

It’s so nice that they’re finally at that point in their relationship.

Another sign of growth: Kilgrave realizes he might have been pushing the envelope a tad too far with Jessica. But he was only trying to help! How was he supposed to know that going from 0 to 60 in three seconds flat might make for a discombobulated Jessica and ergo, a discombobulated Kilgrave-and-Jessica?

Now he knows that maybe making Jessica have “the best sex ever” was too much too soon; he tells her to “absolutely, thoroughly enjoy what I’m about to do to you.” Now he knows that telling her to have “the best day ever” every single day might be a lot; he merely suggests Jessica have “a fun time” during activities. 

To do otherwise would have been fucking with her lady feelings. He gets that now. 

…

Kilgrave holds the door open for Jessica, as he always does, and as she brushes past him she murmurs, “Thanks.”

That’s _never_ happened—typically he reminds her to say “Thank you.” But this time, she said it on her own. _On her own._

He doesn’t remember to follow her into the house until she turns back once she’s a couple steps in. 

“Coming, coming,” he hastily tells her, and he quickens his pace to catch up to Miss Manners.

… 

They go out for dinner, but he tones it down for her. No fine dining or three course meals. 

When she complains about the steak tartare, he tells her to pretend it’s a burger. Then they both laugh hysterically.

At first, he doesn’t order wine, in a nod of companionship for Jessica. He can’t remember the last time he couldn’t order alcohol—back when he was 14? 15?

It’s … different.

Manageable. 

Passable.

Doable. 

… 

The first picture he takes of Jessica since Barcelona is at Highgate Cemetery.

She’s just gotten out of the car and he caught her in the moment, evaluating the landscape. Grey skies but no rain, green fields and forest but no flowers. And then there’s his Jessica, standing out in her preferred black.

Of course, it’s a thick black pea coat, honest-to-God jeans (they’ll get all mucked in the countryside so he’ll let her have her moment) and her black Hunter Wellington boots. Yes, surprise surprise, Jessica got away with her preferred Goth attire because, oh what the hell, they’re going to a cemetery, after all.

He’s thrilled to finally have a good, legitimate reason to take a picture of her. Soon to be, pictures of her, now that he’s going to be taking pictures of her against the picturesque skyline and all the ornate grave sights. 

These are the Jessicas he will want to remember, to cherish forever, to keep with him at all time. Not the sulky, silent, pale Jessica who’d been in a terrible accident and was taking an awfully long time to come around. 

Highgate Cemetery is the first step.

“Remember all the fun we had at the Père Lachaise cemetery, in Paris?” Kilgrave asks her, stuffing his phone in his coat pocket and strolling up to meet Jessica.

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah.”

“No Jim Morrison here for you, unfortunately. But what we do have is Douglas Adams. He’s my Jim Morrison. Remember who he is?”

“ _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ ,” she intones. “Your favorite book series.

Oh, how that pleases him to no end. Jessica Jones knows his favorite book series.

“Good girl. Let’s find him first.”

After Douglas Adams, then there’s Karl Marx, and George Eliot. Plus, all the beautiful, ornate, decidedly Victorian tombs and mausoleums. There’s a lot to look at and touch and play with and tour at this great big cemetery.

He plays hide-and-go-seek with Jessica again, just like in Paris. 

…

Kilgrave wakes up one morning and Jessica Jones’ head is on his bare chest.

That’s _not_ how they went to sleep last night.

She must have moved around in her sleep, reached for his form in her slumber—or maybe she was wide awake when she rested her head on his chest.

An exceptionally pleased Kilgrave lies awake in bed for an hour and a half, just savoring the warmth. 

… 

He lasts three dinners. Curry. Szechuan. Sushi.

Then, and only then, does he order wine just for himself before ordering pasta amatriciana—for the table, obviously. It’s a test for her. Resist temptation and all that. He’s only doing it for her benefit, he reminds her.

She passes beautifully.

… 

Thank goodness they get all of the tourist attractions Jessica asked for done in one day for their four-month anniversary—Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Tower of London, the London Eye, Buckingham Palace, Tower Bridge, the Tube … yes, the _Tube_ , he goes on the stinky, smelly _Tube,_ but only for one stop and only for Jessica, because she asked him. She asked him. 

Jessica Jones laughs when he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes the pole for the two of them to hang on to. He can’t help but chuckle at that.

The London Underground is the only place where he doesn’t take a picture of Jessica that day.

He takes Jessica out for one of their shopping trips—he’d had clothes delivered from Harrods every three days before, so as to not startle Jessica with a trip to the city. But now that they’re here, he supposes it’s only fair to get her properly outfitted, British style.

They spend hours in Harrods and Selfridges getting presents for each other. Jessica picks silk boxers over briefs for him and he loves her for it.

He gives Jessica an entire season’s worth of clothes from Burberry.

With the bags being sent to their private suite at the Savoy—he rented it out for the night—they get ready for their big anniversary date night at the Urban Retreat at Harrods, one of the premiere spas and salons at one of the premiere department stores in London and all of the world. They get matching deep-tissue massages and mud soaks, like in Crete, and then Jessica has her hair and makeup done and he gets his hair touched up before he oversees Jessica’s makeover.

She can rock a red lip, that’s for sure.

They dine at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester—three Michelin stars for a four-month anniversary. The whole place is silent and empty except for the chefs and wait staff, of course.

Still, Kilgrave requests that they be seated at the “Table Lumière,” which is the best seat in the house. They’re sitting at a table surrounded by a waterfall of hanging lights that allows diners at the table to view out into the restaurant but prevents other diners from viewing in. They are in their own little world, even more than usual.

Once they’ve gotten their drinks—sparkling cider for them both, thank you very much—he taps his knife against his glass, stands up and gamely calls out “A toast!”

He’s always wanted to do that.

Jessica is looking up at him expectantly.

“Quiet everyone!” he jokingly calls out to the empty, silent room before focusing on Jessica.  

He smiles apologetically. “Sorry. Got a bit carried away there, I imagine.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at him.

He clears his throat—time to turn on the charm.

“Jessica, sweetheart. I just wanted to say that you look absolutely stunning tonight. A vision. An absolute vision. Stand up so I can see you.”

She stands up and all he can do is stare at her. Yes, he had picked out the the eggplant purple floor-length strapless prom gown—or is it called a ball gown, since they’re adults and not in an ‘80s romantic comedy? And yes, he saw her earlier, in the car ride to the restaurant, and then when they were escorted to their seats. This isn’t a wedding day, it’s just their four-month anniversary dinner, so he knows he can see his partner in her dress and he has before but just … all he can do is stare at her.

It isn’t until she crosses her arms that he realizes how carried away he’s gotten.

“Right. Ah, sorry about that. You can sit down now. Just know … you look beautiful tonight, Jessica. Not that you don’t always look beautiful. You’ve probably gotten sick of me saying that because I tell you how beautiful you are every day but wow, you’re really turned up to 11 tonight, aren’t you?”

Jessica sits down, but continues looking at him.

“All right. Enough of that. Moving on ….Listen, Jessica, I know things have been difficult lately, and I’m sorry about that. But things have also gotten better, just like I knew they would, and they’ll continue to get better. And I want you to know that I will be here for you every step of the way,” he affirms, gazing into her eyes. “Just like I’ve been here for you for the past four months, and you’ve been there for me.”

She silently nods.

“Smile for me, Jessica,” he murmurs, caressing her name.

Her smile shines like the diamonds hanging off her ears and her neck.

“Give me a kiss, Jessica. The kind of kiss you’d give on a four-month anniversary.”

She happily obliges. 

…

If he’s been holding back in the bedroom before because of, you know, then that all changes once they’re back at the hotel.

Hello, four-month anniversary sex.

He tells Jessica to give him the kind of loving like she’d give on a four-month anniversary. She doesn’t need to ask him to do the same.

Especially because he’s never had a four-month anniversary with anyone.

… 

They’ve finished _Monty Python’s Flying Circus_ and move on to the movies: _Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Monty Python’s Life of Brian, Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life._

…

For their Stonehenge day trip, they start by visiting the Salisbury cathedral.

The only time they’re not holding hands during that little trip is when they’re both touching the cathedral’s original copy of the Magna Carta—with no gloves on. It’s one of four remaining copies in the world, and the best maintained one at that. Of course they have to touch it.

God, that wizened archivist … who knew she’d be more of a fighter than she looks? It’d be admirable if it weren’t so annoying. Not only did Kilgrave have to tell the old hag to stop and let them do touch the book, but then he add to tell her not to say anything, not to react with her facial expressions, not to make a noise, not to move a muscle … the last time he had any trouble with someone, it was Jessica.

That old bat is only still alive because of Jessica—because Jessica laid a hand on his arm and asked him. 

Yes, he acknowledges, killing someone probably won’t make Jessica stop from _sometimes_ wanting to die.

He flips through every page of the sodding, smelly old book instead, just out of spite. The archivist watches the entire time.

They tour the Cathedral—touching _everything_ —and it’s loads of fun. 

After they enjoy fish and chips, dear God, at the pub, they head out to Stonehenge. 

Kilgrave’s fingers are just itching to take pictures of Jessica around, in and on top of the structure. It’s going to be great, he can feel it. 

Stonehenge is the oldest thing Jessica’s ever seen, he learns on the car ride over. Kilgrave resolves to take her to Rome once she’s feeling better.

When they walk over to the strange stone structures, the skies have already darkened and it looks like it’s going to rain, but that’s England for you. Still, they’re only about halfway around the circle and he’s only taken about 200 pictures when it starts pouring. 

Jessica’s extremely tense—her jawline looks so exquisite when she gets tense like this—and he actually knows why this time. She thinks he’s going to be upset by the rain. And honestly, he was—but only for a second.

See, with the dark skies, and the rain, and the slicked hair and the dewy pale skin and the dark, dark clothing he let Jessica wear today … it all makes for a magical picture. Jessica looks like a haunting druid or a witch, which works against the eerie backdrop and painted grey skies.

He can already tell it’s going to be extremely difficult to pick just photo as his wallpaper. Maybe he’ll have to make a collage with one of those apps. Think of all the Jessicas…

…

The excursions seem to help. The fresh air and activities do wonders for Jessica’s porcelain complexion—if he didn’t know any better, he’d have pegged her as an English rose.

Turns out that living a little-less-than-simple life works for them. 

It’s different having _his_ home—now _their_ home—waiting for them. Oh, he knows that he’s made a base for them abroad, whether it was the hotel in Paris or the villa in Crete, while he used to just shop around and stay at a new place every week. He didn’t want to startle Jessica then and, really, he loves playing house with her. But a house doesn’t make a home. He knows that now. Now they have an actual home to live in and it’s his. Theirs.

He’s starting to think that maybe the Victorians had the right idea after all: travel, fresh air and good company are all it needs to solve any health problem.

After all, they’ve only been in Highgate for two weeks and things have already improved so much.


	6. Rome

...

It may be inane and terribly, terribly clichéd, but the saying “I need a vacation from my vacation” is absolutely true. Kilgrave knows that now.

Course, he’s not on much of a vacation, is he? Since he’s in his mother country after all, but it wasn’t really much of a home to go back to. Somehow, being back in England is making his bloody skin crawl. It’s been about a month since that harried, rushed flight back to this godforsaken island and now he’s ready to leave.

Jessica is too.

Obviously, they have to go to his favorite spot in the whole wide world. So.

Rome it is.

He’s always thought that the best museum in Rome is the city itself. No other city on the planet is as historical, cultural, beautiful, one-of-a-kind and yet has one-of-everything as Rome, the birthplace of civilization. He hasn’t been back since … seven or eight months before he met Jessica? No, that can’t be it—has it really been that long? God, it has! Yes, Rome it is, for sure now.

Jessica’s never been to Rome. Of course. Then again, Jessica’s never been to a lot of places, not like he has. She’s one of those freakish New York types that have never left the island before he met her.

Honestly, she’s so lucky he decided to stick it out with her. How could he not, though? She’s the love of his life.

...

Turns out, it’s pretty easy to catch a last-minute flight to Rome when you’re already traveling with a crew of captains and flight attendants. They’re the very same ones who chartered them to London in the first place and have been keeping house for them ever since. 

It feels so goddamn good to fuck Jessica on a plane again. He’s missed this. Their last flight together, she also spent the entire flight to London lying in bed, but in a different way. That was a whole other thing. 

Now she’s making up for it, straddling him on the silky sheets of the jet’s bed, bent over just so in order for the tips of her hair to brush his chest, just like he likes. It’s all he can do not to nut himself.

They’ve been fucking on the regular for the past couple of weeks, once she got back to normal. But my God, he forgot what it’s like to fuck Jessica thousands of miles in the air.

So now they really just had to fuck two more times during the length of the flight. No other possible choice, really.

…

When they can manage, they watch “A Roman Holiday” in bed as another form of in-flight entertainment. He loves that old-school glamour: classic actors flirting their way through all the classic Roman sights projected through an even classier black and white coloring. Such a cliché to be watching this right now, right before they land in Rome, but how can it be such a bad thing when he’s snuggled up to Jessica, watching her watch the movie. 

He guessed, quite correctly, that she had never seen it. His Jessica isn’t one of those girls that worships Audrey Hepburn—he can tell she probably never had the iconic “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” poster in her bedroom at any point of her life.

Shame, though, because he thinks his Jessica is really quite the 21st century Audrey Hepburn. Well, once he gets her out of the black leather jacket and puts her in a little black dress. 

“What’s the shortest you hair has ever been?” he asks her, reaching over and rubbing a strand of her hair between his fingers. “I want to know.”

She looks over at him. Silence, but he can tell she’s thinking about it, so he lets her go on. Finally, she answers with “Baby-length, I guess, when I was born.”

“Honestly, Jessica. Ever get a buzz cut? Chop it all off?" 

“Nope.”

“So it’s always been—what, then, shoulder-length and longer, would you say?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Hmm,” he sighs, still gazing at her face, those delicate features, those strikingly dark and thick eyebrows, that perfect pale skin. Then he glances at the screen, at lovely Miss Audrey Hepburn, and he can feel Jessica track the movement.

“What?” she asks him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look strikingly similar to her?” he asks, jutting his chin at the flat screen on the wall.

They’re at the part of the movie where Audrey and Gregory Peck have just emerged from the river, soaking wet, only to share a beautiful kiss after a whole trip’s worth of built-up sexual tension. He’s quite enamored with the fetching way that Audrey’s hair looks when it’s soaking wet, curling just so above the tip of her shirt collar.

“Nope,” she replies, once again popping the “p.”

“Well, sweetheart, that’s a pity. Because I think you’re a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn,” he smoothly replies.

He can tell by her expression that she’s going to retort with something sassy. Good thing he’s in the mood for it, though.

Jessica Jones doesn’t disappoint. “Good for you,” she comes up with, the venom dripping off her lips. She even rolls her eyes for added effect. He eats it up. His little drama queen.

“Mmm, yes, it is,” he murmurs, coming down for a kiss. 

He spends the rest of the time watching Jessica watch Audrey and wondering whether he’d like it if Jessica had that same haircut. Her face would be even more striking, of that he’s sure—but wouldn’t it feel like he’s kissing a boy, he wonders, if he could only run his fingers through an inch or two of her thick, dark hair?

That thought can be tabled for later. Though, he does intend on buying Jessica loads of silk neck scarves and belted, cinched long skirts, à la Audrey Hepburn.

…

Kilgrave can just _feel_ all the stress and tension evaporate when he steps off the plane and feels the sun on his face. Yes. This is exactly what he wanted.

He’s missed Rome. It’s so good to be back, and to bring his love along too.

Before they even stop at the hotel, they stop at the Trevi Fountain, which is deserted after Kilgrave tells everyone to give them some privacy. He’s timed this perfectly, so that they’re at this fountain at dusk—“l’heure blue,” or the blue hour, as the French say. 

On the plane, Jessica had changed into a push up bra and a va-va-voom black strapless Versace gown with a slit up to _there_. It’s all so she can now listlessly, carelessly wade around the water like Anita Ekberg in “La Dolce Vita.” They’d watched the classic Fellini film the night before so she could understand the reference. 

Recreating this famous scene at this famous fountain, Jessica looks even more beautiful than that Anita Ekberg with her dark hair. She damn near takes his breath away.

After taking enough pictures of Jessica in front of the fountain, in the fountain, on the fountain, he finally joins her in the water. He may as well be slopping through molasses in his perfectly tailored aubergine fitted suit, but he slogs his way over to where she is by the gushing water. They kiss next to a waterfall, in the moonlight. 

Holding hands, they throw Euros over their shoulders into the Trevi Fountain. “Make a wish!” he tells her.

Heh. _Make a wish._ What a funny phrase. Such a quaint little gesture. He gets a kick out of that whole act, and the whole act of wishing in itself. He really has no use for it like some people, he reflects, not when he can literally make his wish his command.

Still, he closes his eye and makes a wish. How nice it is, to know it will come true as soon as he opens his eyes, gazes over at Jessica and leans to whisper something in her ear.

Wouldn’t you know it: his silent wish comes true. Jessica Jones swears she really loves him.

…

After showering at the hotel, Kilgrave and Jessica mosey over to this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that’s, without a doubt, the best restaurant in the city.

“You’re going to love this pasta amatriciana. It’s the best in the city,” he sweetly informs Jessica.

“I _do_ love it. It _is_ the best in the city,” she says. Once she’s swallowed, she adds, “You’ve literally said that to me in every single city we’ve been to.”

He loves that she remembers that. “Touché, my little Jessica. Tell you what: This one’s the best in the city _and_ in the whole wide world. How’s that?” 

She murmurs in acknowledgement.

“You may not know this, Jessica, but this place was the very first place that ever served me pasta amatriciana. Crazy, isn’t it?”

He chuckles at the memory. He was so naïve back then—his first trip to Rome, his first taste of what would soon be his favorite dish ever. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember his amazement from that first bite. That little forkful of heaven was probably served to him from some random, gorgeous blonde. He was in his blonde phase back then. 

A loud slurp from Jessica brings him back to the present. There’s a little speck of sauce on her chin, and he leans across the table to wipe it off with his thumb. “Don’t slurp, darling. Mind your manners,” he exasperatedly tells her.

He decides that they’ll watch “My Fair Lady” later that night for some post-coital entertainment.

…

After dinner, they go for a drink at this hot club in the Trastevere area, sipping cocktails while gazing at the moon and its reflection in the Tiber River.

This whole night has been so romantic for him. Pasta amatriciana at his favorite restaurant. Strolling the narrow, maze-like streets of this trendy neighborhood and leading his love of his life in her six-inch platform heels. Plus, this bright, beautiful full moon, and the way Jessica looks tonight in that moonlight—well, now, there you have it. He literally couldn’t have planned a better date for himself.

His heart swells. He loves life right now. He loves Rome. He loves Jessica. A perfect Venn diagram of happiness, right in this moment.

“How long do we have to stay here?” Jessica huffs, quietly sucking the rest of her cocktail with a straw and then calmly placing the glass on a nearby table.

“Stop that, Jessica. You love it here,” he chides.

She’s silent for a bit after that. “The people here are awful,” she says conversationally.

Kilgrave looks over his shoulder at the pulsing dance floor, the grinding dancers, the men and women on the prowl. He can almost smell their cologne and sweat all the way over here.

Yeah, okay, the club is pretty awful—that’s why he cleared out the dance floor that’s usually on the patio that they’re standing on now, so it’s just the two of them. He had the DJ stop the awful Giorgio Moroder electronic disco, and he also had everyone shut up and silently do what they would have done if they could talk and listen and dance to the music.

Frankly, it looks like they’re watching a movie of a whole club on mute. Which he likes—all the ambience and energy of a night out, without the pesky people and noise.

But that’s not enough for Jessica, is it? No, she would have wanted him to pause it. No, not even that—she would have wanted him to turn it off. Like she wanted to turn off her life.

“Come now, Jessica. You don’t mean that,” he tells her, and her face crumples in agreement. Satisfied, he adds, "You would do well to remember you’re not the only one that thinks the entire human race is stupid.”

He should know. He’s had to find that out for himself the hard way. The hardest way possible, even. 

…

Rome and its tourist traps are absolutely essential first-day activities, after they finish espresso, fruit and pastries on the roofdeck of a nearby villa.

He gets Vespa drivers for him and Jessica so they can begin their journey all around the city. Well, only after he photographs Jessica in her helmet and Jessica straddling the vehicle, of course.

First stop: Piazza Navona to sip another espresso in front of the famous square’s fountain.

Jessica stands under the circular dome of the Pantheon, which is such a better Pantheon than the Panthéon in the Latin Quarter in Paris. Then they scamper around the Romam Forum, but it’s so much better than the ruins in Greece. The Spanish steps are a million times more architecturally gorgeous than any Spanish steps they stepped on in Barcelona.

He doesn’t even bother finding similarities between what they did in New York and London because, let’s face it, Rome would win, hands down.

There’s literally no other place he’d rather be right now. And, of course, there’s no other person he’d rather be with right now either. 

Jessica loves everything they’re doing, of course.

Jessica absolutely loves Rome. So she loves him.

…

They watch the sun set while their legs dangle off the side of a wall up on Gianicolo. The hill, while not one of the city’s famous seven hills, has the absolute best view of the city during sunset. Which means he gets the absolute best photo of Jessica in the sunset light, looking at the sunset and the city.

_Hello, new iPad wallpaper._

…

For dinner that night, they eat their favorite dish at their favorite restaurant in their favorite city in the whole wide world.

… 

The next day, they go out to the Vatican. He lets Jessica cover her shoulders and knees like everyone else, like the Pope says people should do. It’s so much easier than having to go and remind every Swiss guard and security guard and random passerby that Jessica’s allowed everywhere.

After walking around St. Peter’s Square, they enter the Vatican Museums. So much history gained from so much power. He’s enthralled.

They touch everything. He loves this. Etruscan vases? Touched. Pope mobiles throughout the ages? He and Jessica sit in every single one of them. Some saint’s finger? They pull it, giggling. Every relic they’ve looked at becomes a relic they’ve touched.

Someone goes and gets a crane that lifts him and Jessica so close to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel that they literally “boop” God, and touch the space where God’s finger and Adam’s finger can’t.

…

Back in Rome, he and Jessica fuck on a blanket on Palatine Hill. It’s smack dab in the middle of the seven hills of Rome, so it’s overlooking the Roman Forum, Circus Maximus and, quite magnificently, the Colosseum.

Fuck. This is the spot where Rome was founded. This is the place where Romulus and Remus were stranded when they were discovered by the she-wolf. This is where kings and emperors built their palaces.

Now he’s fucking Jessica on top of it. They’re literally fucking on top of the world, on top of the modern world. And he’s literally fucking Jessica—he’s on top of her, they’re on top of it. 

When he comes, he roars.

…

He and Jessica are giddily strolling down a tiny, forgotten passageway that leads to one of the city’s best-kept secrets: a beautiful tiny little corner of a public park filled with palm trees. The sunlight simply streams though the fronds and he knows, he just knows, that once he gets Jessica in front of it, it will make a beautiful picture. 

It’s all because Kilgrave desperately needs a new wallpaper on his MacBook Air anyways—right now it’s a photo of Jessica in Wellies at a pond breaking off a piece of a scone to drop in front of a couple of ducks. She has never managed to look so _adorable_.

But Jessica in London is one thing, and Jessica in Rome is a whole other picture.

So there he is, holding his Jessica’s hand and carefully leading her down the worn-out cobblestones of the centuries-old alley when he sees it. Him, actually, but is he really human, this doctor that operated on a scared, frightened little boy without any anesthesia?

Funnily enough, he’s forgotten about this doctor. Hasn’t thought about him in years. Hasn’t tried to track him down like he once did with his wretched parents—hasn’t killed him like some of the other doctors he’s come across over the years.

That was back in his twenties, when he had tried to find the people who did this to him and make them pay. Such a long time ago, it seems. He’s grown up since then—vengeance and revenge isn’t nearly as fun or rewarding as walking into a club and being desired by every single person in it. Or, showing the world to Jessica, for that matter.

But … this man is literally right in front of him, right under his nose. Look at how good Kilgrave is—he didn’t even have to put in any effort to find him! What a stupid bastard. Might be worth checking in and seeing what he knows.

The whizened old man, somehow smaller than Kilgrave remembers, looks like he could be blown over with a gust of wind as he walks in front of them. God, he’s even wearing one of those awful button-down short sleeve shirts and pleated khakis. This is going to be a piece of cake.

Jessica, bless her, is blissfully unaware of what’s going on in front of her. And he’s going to keep it that way. Just having this one doctor … he can’t even remember the name … alive and well and knowing about Kilgrave and his condition is one too many. 

So they keep on their journey, following this man too dumb to know he’s being tailed.

When they get to the park, he instructs Jessica to sit down on a park bench and not to move a muscle until he gets back. One kiss to her forward later, he’s catching up to the doctor—Collings, he thinks his name was, but that was probably an alias for his hush-hush evil science job.

When the man turns around at the sound of Kilgrave calling out “Stop,” he doesn’t seem to recognize Kilgrave, which is good, or that he stopped because Kilgrave commanded him to—which is even better.

“Let me get a look at you,” Kilgrave calmly states, circling the man. Ahh, yes, there’s the growing panic in the widening eyes as the person realizes what’s happening. That never gets old. “You don’t remember me, do you? But now you do. Isn’t that right, Collings? Tell me.”

“It’s … it’s you,” Collings whispers, his eyes never leaving Kilgrave’s face. “Little Kevin Thompson.”

Kilgrave slaps him for his cheek. “Not anymore. It’s Kilgrave and you’re going to answer a few questions. Follow me.”

The man follows Kilgrave into a little wine bar, and sits down at the table Kilgrave points to. The old couple that own the place quickly get over their surprise and start fixing Kilgrave an espresso while Kilgrave paces, trying to slow down his racing brain to come up with the appropriate questions.

“You’re going to truthfully answer every question I ask you,” he tells Collings. “Where are my parents?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to them in years. We made a pact, you see.”

“Yes, I do see. How lovely for you,” Kilgrave sarcastically replies. “Is there anyone from those experiments that you do keep in contact with?”

“No.”

“Great. That’s just great,” Kilgrave mutters, more to himself. The old woman comes up to him with the espresso, and he takes it from her trembling hands and takes a sip.

“Do you still have your research from that time? Your files?”

“I burned all the original paper files,” the man replies, and there’s something in the way that he emphasized “paper” that makes Kilgrave take notice.

Aah.

For all of his frailty and age spots and wrinkles, this man has a brilliant mind. And unlike the people Kilgrave usually tries this out on, he knew what Kilgrave is capable of before Kilgrave commanded him to do a thing.

“Do you have any copies of any of your files? Specifically, electronic copies? Anything that has to do with your time working with my parents and on me, and from your time at the University of Manchester? Any of those? Tell me where they’re located and how to get them.”

The man’s mouth drops open, and Kilgrave knows he got him. Pleased, he takes another sip of his espresso.

Collings is going on and on about how he put everything on to four USB drives: one’s in his apartment here in Rome, one’s in a safety deposit box in Switzerland, one’s at a bank in Dublin and one’s with his niece in New York. 

Those USB drives have everything from that time—which, conveniently, is everything Kilgrave needs.

After a few more questions about how to find these USB drives and who knows what, Kilgrave’s satisfied.

He calls for the woman to bring him the largest knife she has from the kitchen, and she does so. It’s so annoying how her hands are trembling, so he orders her to stop as he takes the knife and passes it to Collings.

“Kill yourself in the most painful way possible,” he tells Collings as he walks out the door. Screams follow him out of the building, but he can’t hear anything once he closes the door and walks back into the street.

Kilgrave’s surprised to find himself whistling as he goes to fetch Jessica. They’re going to take some pictures in the park, and then they’re going to visit to this man’s probably sorry excuse of an apartment to get the USB drive from his fireproof safe in his closet, and then they’re going to feed each other gelato.

He’s craving chocolate, for some reason. 

Then he’ll wash it down with some Guinness. In Dublin. After he finds that fucking USB drive.

They’ll revisit Rome once he has all of them.

…


End file.
